Mrs. Brewster's delicate color had deepened. "It would be as well
to open some of the doors," she agreed coldly. "The library looks
odd, not to say funereal," she glanced down the spacious room and
shivered ever so slightly. "Do, Babs, put out some of the lights;
they are blinding."
"Oh, I'll turn them all out "- Barbara sought the electric switch.
"But your father -"
"No need to worry about father; he can find his way about in the
dark like a cat," responded Barbara with unabated cheerfulness.
"Seems to me, Margaret, you and father are getting mighty chummy
these days."
The sudden darkness into which Barbara's impatient fingers, pressing
against the electric light buttons, plunged the library and its
occupants, prevented her seeing the curious glance which Mrs.
Brewster shot at her. Helen, who had listened to their chatter with
growing impatience, looked back over her shoulder.
"Hurry, Barbara, and come upstairs. Now, Margaret," and she piloted
the widow along the hall toward the staircase without giving her an
opportunity to answer Barbara's last remark.
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