She exerted herself to glow a little, but she failed. She talked well
at the tea-table, but she did not tell about the glove. This matter
plagued her. She ran over in her mind the various doings of Miss
Crofutt, and she could not conceal from herself that that lady had never
given a glove to one of her wretches; no, nor had she ever permitted the
smallest approach to familiarity.
Miss Eunice wept a little. She was on the eve of despairing.
In the silence of the night the idea presented itself to her with a
disagreeable baldness. There was a thief over yonder that possessed a
confidence with her.
They had found it necessary to shut this man up in iron and stone, and
to guard him with a rifle with a large leaden ball in it.
This villain was a convict. That was a terrible word, one that made her
blood chill.
She, the admired of hundreds and the beloved of a family, had done a
secret and shameful thing of which she dared not tell. In these solemn
hours the madness of her act appalled her.
She asked herself what might not the fellow do with the glove? Surely he
would exhibit it among his brutal companions, and perhaps allow it to
pass to and fro among them. They would laugh and joke with him, and he
would laugh and joke in return, and no doubt he would kiss it to their
great delight. Again, he might go to her friends, and, by working upon
their fears and by threatening an exposure of her, extort large sums of
money from them.
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