It seemed to me that I was little by little
getting the threads of his story. That there was a native girl; that the
girl had died or been killed; that Roscoe was in some way--innocently I
dared hope--connected with it; and that Mrs. Falchion held the key to the
mystery, I was certain. That it was in her mind to use the mystery, I was
also certain. But for what end I could not tell. What had passed between
them in London the previous winter I did not know: but it seemed evident
that she had influenced him there as she did on the 'Fulvia', had again
lost her influence, and was now resenting the loss, out of pique or
anger, or because she really cared for him. It might be that she cared.
She added after a moment: "Add man to nature, and it stops sulking: which
goes to show that fallen humanity is better than no company at all."
She had an inherent strain of mockery, of playful satire, and she told me
once, when I knew her better, that her own suffering always set her
laughing at herself, even when it was greatest. It was this
characteristic which made her conversation very striking, it was so
sharply contrasted in its parts; a heartless kind of satire set against
the most serious and acute statements.
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