"What is it you want of me?" she asked.
"I merely want permission to visit your rooms at your home and to
talk with your maid. I do not mean to spy on you, far from it;
but consider, Mrs. Close, if I should be able to get at the
bottom of this thing, find out the real cause of your misfortune,
perhaps show that you are the victim of a cruel wrong rather than
of carelessness, would you not be willing to let me go ahead? I
am frank to tell you that I suspect there is more to this affair
than you yourself have any idea of."
"No, you are mistaken, Mr. Kennedy. I know the cause of it. It
was my love of beauty. I couldn't resist the temptation to get
rid of even a slight defect. If I had left well enough alone I
should not be here now. A friend recommended Dr. Gregory to my
husband, who took me there. My husband wishes me to remain at
home, but I tell him I feel more comfortable here in the
hospital. I shall never go to that house again--the memory of the
torture of sleepless nights in my room there when I felt my good
looks going, going"--she shuddered--"is such that I can never
forget it. He says I would be better off there, but no, I cannot
go. Still," she continued wearily, "there can be no harm in your
talking to my maid."
Kennedy noted attentively what she was saying.
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