She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. Around her neck was a little gold chain. Lucy could see Diane’s clear dislike of her, the foster background she had come from, and the single mysterious episode with the police that had inflamed the gossips from all the corners of town. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. She smiled and started for the stairs without reply. I guess she used to pick on her for being big and fat.
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