The girl sat there in the armchair in front of the shell-ceilinged recess, motionless and white as alabaster, shocked and completely stunned. And I was nearly as much so myself, at what Abigail Whitney had done, and at what she wanted kept out of The Saturday Evening Post. “My Brother killed a man.” If those words were still going crazily around in my mind, however, they must have been infinitely more intense and paralyzing in Laurel Frazier’s. I thought back, trying to decide how much she could have heard, at what point Mrs. Whitney had known she was there and couldn’t help but hear. It must have been when she’d stopped and then said that about the dead past burying its dead, not coming back to destroy a useful citizen. That, of course, must have been for Laurel, for up to then she had ce
