"
Mrs. Coombe's pouting lips lengthened into a hard line.
"I won't see a doctor. And that's flat."
"Are you feeling better, then?"
As was always the case, her mother's perversity dissipated Esther's
sympathy and left her tone cold. It was all the colder probably because
just at that moment she had noticed that the simple white frock Mrs.
Coombe was wearing was not simple at all. The delicate embroidery on it
was all hand work. And French embroidery is no inexpensive trifle. It
was probably a new "best" gown; but if so, why had it been worn on the
train, why was it soiled in places and carelessly put on? The skirt was
not even, the collar, having lost a support, sagged at one side and just
below the girdle belt there was a small, jagged rent. Esther noticed
these details with vexation and discomfort, for it was part of the
change in Mary Coombe that from being one of the most carefully gowned
women in town she had become one of the most slovenly. All her natty,
pretty, American "style" which the plainer Canadians had sometimes
envied was gone.
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