Half of the women in
Tinkletown found excuse to walk past Mr. Crow's home some time during
the day, and not a few of them called to pay their respects to Mrs.
Crow, whether they owed them or not, much to that estimable lady's
discomfiture.
Wicker's mother was a handsome, aristocratic woman with a pedigree
reaching back to Babylon or some other historic starting place. Her
ancestors were Tories at the time of the American Revolution, and she
was proud of it. Her husband's forefathers had shot a few British in
those days, it is true, and had successfully chased some of her own
ancestors over to Long Island, but that did not matter in these
twentieth century days. Mr. Bonner long since had gone to the tomb; and
his widow at fifty was quite the queen of all she surveyed, which was
not inconsiderable. The Bonners were rich in worldly possessions, rich
in social position, rich in traditions. The daughter, just out in
society, was a pretty girl, several years younger than Wicker. She was
the idol of his heart. This slip of a girl had been to him the
brightest, wittiest and prettiest girl in all the world. Now, he was
wondering how the other girl, who was not his sister, would compare with
her when they stood together before him.
Naturally, Mrs. Crow and her daughters sank into a nervous panic as soon
as these fashionable women from Boston set foot inside the humble home.
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