Therefore, Ida May fell back upon tears. She blubbered right
heartily, and, being really weary after her walk from the port, she
fell back into the spring rocker, which squeaked almost as
protestingly as she did, put her beringed hands before her face, and
gave herself to grief.
Sheila Macklin's expression did not change. She revealed no sympathy
for Ida May Bostwick. If she felt sympathy, it was for that girl
who had been persecuted, unfairly accused of stealing, sent to a
place worse than prison, afterward branded with the stigma of
"jailbird"; that girl whom Tunis Latham had befriended, had rescued
from a situation which she could not think of now without a feeling
of creeping horror.
Was she going to give over without a fight to this new claimant a
place which had been and still was her only refuge? It could not be
expected that she would do this. She had had no warning of this
catastrophe. There had been no opportunity to prepare for a
situation which must have shocked her terribly in any case. But if
she had only had time--
Time? Time for what? To run away? Or to prepare the Balls, for
instance, for the coming of this new claimant? And who knew this
girl who said she was Ida May Bostwick? Sheila Macklin was fully
aware of the history of Sarah Honey, of her marriage which had quite
cut her off from her Cape Cod friends, and of the little that was
known at Big Wreck Cove about her daughter, who, since babyhood, had
never been seen here.
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