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The Best British Short Stories of 1922 by Unknown
page 68 of 482 (14%)
into the glass.

For a moment Miss Deane did not move; then, with a queer hesitation,
she dropped her right hand and slowly lifted her lorgnette.

Rachel felt a cold chill of horror invading her. Something fearful and
terrible was happening before her eyes; her aunt was shrinking,
withering, growing old in a moment. The stiffness had gone out of her
pose, her head had begun to droop; the proud contempt in her face was
giving way to the moping, resentful reminiscence of the aged. She still
held up her lorgnette, still stared half fearfully at the glaring
contrast that was presented to her, but her hand and arm had begun to
tremble under the strain, and, instant by, instant, all life and vigour
seemed to be draining away from her.

Then, suddenly, with a fierce effort she turned away her head,
straightened herself, and walked over to the door, passing out with a
high, thin cackle of laughter that had in it the suggestion of a
vehement, petulant derision; of a bitterness outmastering control.

Rachel shivered, but held her ground before the mirror. She had nothing
to fear from that contemplation. As for her aunt, she had had her day.
It was time she knew the truth.

"She _had_ to know," Rachel repeated, addressing the dear likeness that
so proudly reflected her.

V

She found consolation in that thought. Her aunt _had_ to know and
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