She would speak to no
one. After luncheon she found her hat and coat for herself, let herself
out of the house, and walked to Mrs. Kitson's, and was shown into the
wide, untidy drawing-room, where books and flowers and papers had a
lost and strayed air as though a violent wind had blown through the
place and disturbed everything.
Mrs. Kitson came in.
"_You_, dear?" she said.
Sarah looked at the room and then at Mrs. Kitson. Her eyes said: "_What_
a place! _What_ a woman! _What_ a fool!"
"Yes, I've come to explain about Mary."
"About Mary?"
"Yes. It's my fault that she's ill. I took a ring out of that little
table there--the gold ring with the red stone--and I made her promise
not to tell. It's because she thinks she ought to tell that she's ill."
"_You_ took it? _You_ stole it?" Before Mrs. Kitson's simple mind an
awful picture was now revealed. Here, in this little girl, whom she had
preferred as a companion for her beloved Mary, was a thief, a liar, and
one, as she could instantly perceive, without shame.
"You _stole_ it!"
"Yes; here it is." Sarah laid the ring on the table.
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