Paloma was petite and well proportioned, and the gowns were
altogether charming. Alaire was honest in her praise, and Paloma's
response was one of whole-hearted pleasure. The girl beamed. Never
before had she been so admired, never until this moment had she
adored a person as she adored Mrs. Austin, whose every suggestion
as to fit and style was acted upon, regardless of Mrs. Strange.
"I don't know what Dad will say when he gets the bill for these
dresses," Paloma confessed.
"Your father is a mighty queer man," Mrs. Strange observed. "I
haven't so much as laid eyes on him."
Paloma nodded. "Yes. And he's getting more peculiar all the time;
I can't make out what ails him."
"Where is he now?" asked Alaire.
"Heaven knows! Out in the barn or under the house." Taking
advantage of the dressmaker's momentary absence from the room,
Paloma continued in a whisper: "I wish you'd talk to Dad and see
what you make of him. He's absolutely--queer. Mrs. Strange seems
to have a peculiar effect on him. Why, it's almost as if--"
"What?"
"Well, I suppose I'm foolish, but--I'm beginning to believe in
spells. You know, Mrs. Strange's husband is a sort of--
necromancer.
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