"How
know you that, Senora Moreno?"
"He told my sister so," replied the Senora, reluctantly. She grudged
the girl even this much of consolation.
"What was his name?" asked Ramona.
"Phail; Angus Phail," the Senora replied almost mechanically. She
found herself strangely constrained by Ramona's imperious
earnestness, and she chafed under it. The tables were being turned
on her, she hardly knew how. Ramona seemed to tower in stature,
and to have the bearing of the one in authority, as she stood before
her pouring out passionate question after question. The Senora
turned to the larger box, and opened it. With unsteady hands she
lifted out the garments which for so many years had rarely seen the
light. Shawls and ribosos of damask, laces, gowns of satin, of
velvet. As the Senora flung one after another on the chairs, it was a
glittering pile of shining, costly stuffs. Ramona's eyes rested on
them dreamily.
"Did my adopted mother wear all these?" she asked, lifting in her
hand a fold of lace, and holding it up to the light, in evident
admiration.
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