But this shrewd, penetrative woman took another view of the matter
when alone in the presence of her husband some hours afterwards.
"Matilda needn't try to stuff such nonsense down our throats. She
cannot make me believe but that she concocted the whole thing
herself."
Mrs. Montgomery was evidently aroused. Her sallow face assumed a
deeper color, and her eyes spoke out the honest convictions of her
thoughts.
"_Poor Evelyn_, indeed! She is just as much sick as I am at
present. How they can trump up such things and make people believe
them is more than I can see."
Mrs. Montgomery plied her knitting needles with almost lightning
rapidity, and the exercise seemed to give relief to the angry
feeling that accompanied it.
"You need not say a word in Matilda's defence, William. I pity
Stephen Verne from the bottom of my heart. It is always such men
that become martyrs to the whims and tyrannical grievances of their
wives."
Mrs. Montgomery stooped to pickup the ball of yarn that had rolled
under her chair, and her husband went towards the door as if to
depart.
"I tell you what it is, William, Matilda Verne is my own sister, but
it grieves me to think so.
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