Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and
sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged
herself passionately on her husband's side, scorning the mere
idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail.
I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully.
"Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity.
It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride
and her jealousy have--"
"Jealousy?" I queried.
"Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous
woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid
aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband, and the terrible
fate that is hanging over him."
He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly,
remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating
whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's
happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of
his hands.
"Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it.
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