I stared at his face until spots appeared before my eyes and I nearly fainted. I sat in the parlor beside his coffin for two days thinking, I have killed him. It was only a discussion, I said: I was not on the gallery when he fell, I protested, and they all stared at me as if rd killed him. Finally the priest came to see me and demanded to know what had gone on. the parish that something horrible had happened in my room which I would not reveal and even the police questioned me, on the word of my own mother. My sister went to bed rather than face the funeral, and my mother told everyone in. I was so bitterly shocked and miserable that I had no patience with anyone, only the vague determination they would not know about his'visions.' They would not know that he had become, finally, not a saint, but only a. Then my sister joined in, and of course I refused to say. My mother would not stop asking me what had happened and why my brother, who was so quiet, had been shouting. "The servants had heard us, my mother had heard us. That we had argued minutes before the fall. They simply knew that something had passed between us that was unpleasant.
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