It is so plain. You have only to
look and see. I mean about Olive." She loosed a button in the front of
her dress and passed her hand into her bosom. "And yet, Olive herself
never thought of it. She does not know a word."
The hand came out holding a miniature. Madame Varrillat passed it to
Jean Thompson.
"_Ouala so popa_," said Madame Delphine. "That is her father."
It went from one to another, exciting admiration and murmured praise.
"She is the image of him," said Madame Thompson, in an austere
undertone, returning it to her husband.
Doctor Varrillat was watching Madame Delphine. She was very pale. She
had passed a trembling hand into a pocket of her skirt, and now drew out
another picture, in a case the counterpart of the first. He reached out
for it, and she handed it to him. He looked at it a moment, when his
eyes suddenly lighted up and he passed it to the attorney.
"_Et la_"--Madame Delphine's utterance failed--"_et la ouala sa moman_.
That is her mother."
The three others instantly gathered around Jean Thompson's chair.
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