CHAPTER SEVENBy morning, however, I should never have thought of telling him. In fact, until I saw Lilac’s solemn black face above the pink-flowered coffeepot on my breakfast tray, I had almost forgotten Sandra Gould. It’s always seemed to me a curious commentary on the human soul that a few hours’ sleep and the morning sun can manage to do away with the most horrible forebodings. I thought of that now as I waited for Lilac to prop the pillows behind me.
“Mr. Jim’s wife done away with herself las’ night, Miss Grace,” she said ominously.
“I know,” I said, unfolding the morning paper.
“Don’ seem lak she’d do that, somehow. Seem lak she was too ornery.”
“You can’t tell about people,” I answered philosophically.
“ ’Deed an’ that’s what Annie says, at church this mornin’.”
Annie is the Bi
