She stood
a moment in a sort of glare of intention and, as seemed to Isabel even
then, of ugliness; after which she said: "My first sister-in-law had
no children."
Isabel stared back at her; the announcement was an anticlimax. "Your
first sister-in-law?"
"I suppose you know at least, if one may mention it, that Osmond has
been married before! I've never spoken to you of his wife; I thought
it mightn't be decent or respectful. But others, less particular, must
have done so. The poor little woman lived hardly three years and
died childless. It wasn't till after her death that Pansy arrived."
Isabel's brow had contracted to a frown; her lips were parted in
pale, vague wonder. She was trying to follow; there seemed so much
more to follow than she could see. "Pansy's not my husband's child
then?"
"Your husband's-in perfection! But no one else's husband's. Some one
else's wife's. Ah, my good Isabel," cried the Countess, "with you
one must dot one's i's!"
"I don't understand. Whose wife's?" Isabel asked.
"The wife of a horrid little Swiss who died-how long?-a dozen,
more than fifteen, years ago. He never recognized Miss Pansy, nor,
knowing what he was about, would have anything to say to her; and
there was no reason why he should.
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