He stood in the many-colored light of the stained-glass window at
the far end of the long room, when Roscoe and his wife came in, and
he exhaled a solemnity. His deference to the Sabbath was manifest,
as always, in the length of his coat and the closeness of his
Saturday-night shave; and his expression, to match this religious
pomp, was more than Sabbatical, but the most dismaying of his
demonstrations was his keeping his hand in his sling.
Sibyl advanced to the middle of the room and halted there, not
looking at him, but down at her muff, in which, it could be seen,
her hands were nervously moving. Roscoe went to a chair in another
part of the room. There was a deadly silence.
But Sibyl found a shaky voice, after an interval of gulping, though
she was unable to lift her eyes, and the darkling lids continued to
veil them. She spoke hurriedly, like an ungifted child reciting
something committed to memory, but her sincerity was none the less
evident for that.
"Father Sheridan, you and mother Sheridan have always been so kind to
me, and I would hate to have you think I don't appreciate it, from the
way I acted. I've come to tell you I am sorry for the way I did that
night, and to say I know as well as anybody the way I behaved, and
it will never happen again, because it's been a pretty hard lesson;
and when we come back, some day, I hope you'll see that you've got
a daughter-in-law you never need to be ashamed of again.
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