Clara did not look at Hugh again. What he did seemed no concern of hers.
Bowles the Bidwell undertaker had surrendered to the influence of the wine
that had been flowing freely since the guests arrived and now got to his
feet and began to talk. His wife tugged at his coat and tried to force him
back into his seat, but Tom Butterworth jerked her arm away. "Ah, let him
alone. He's got a story to tell," he said to the woman, who blushed and
put her handkerchief over her face. "Well, it's a fact, that's how it
happened," the undertaker declared in a loud voice. "You see the sleeves
of her nightgown were tied in hard knots by her rascally brothers. When I
tried to unfasten them with my teeth I bit big holes in the sleeves."
Clara gripped the arm of her chair. "If I can let the night pass without
showing these people how much I hate them I'll do well enough," she thought
grimly. She looked at the dishes laden with food and wished she could break
them one by one over the heads of her father's guests. As a relief to her
mind, she again looked past her father's head and through a doorway into
the kitchen.
In the big room three or four cooks were busily engaged in the preparation
of food, and waitresses continually brought steaming dishes and put them on
the tables. She thought of her mother's life, the life led in that room,
married to the man who was her own father and who no doubt, but for the
fact that circumstances had made him a man of wealth, would have been
satisfied to see his daughter led into just such another life.
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