Three Act Tragedy. Agatha Christie
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‘Not that I know of. When—?’
‘All in the moonlight. As we were going down the path. I thought he was still looking from the terrace. I thought perhaps if he saw me and Oliver—well, I thought it might wake him up a bit. Because he did like me. I could swear he liked me.’
‘Wasn’t that a little hard on Oliver?’
Egg shook her head decisively.
‘Not in the least. Oliver thinks it’s an honour for any girl to be kissed by him. It was damned bad for his conceit, of course; but one can’t think of everything. I wanted to ginger up Charles. He’s been different lately—more standoffish.’
‘My dear child,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘I don’t think you realize quite why Sir Charles went away so suddenly. He thought that you cared for Oliver. He went away to save himself further pain.’
Egg whisked round. She caught hold of Mr Satterthwaite by the shoulders and peered into his face.
‘Is that true? Is that really true? The mutt! The boob! Oh—!’
She released Mr Satterthwaite suddenly and moved along beside him with a skipping motion.
‘Then he’ll come back,’ she said. ‘He’ll come back. If he doesn’t—’
‘Well, if he doesn’t?’
Egg laughed.
‘I’ll get him back somehow. You see if I don’t.’
It seemed as though allowing for difference of language Egg and the lily maid of Astolat had much in common, but Mr Satterthwaite felt that Egg’s methods would be more practical than those of Elaine, and that dying of a broken heart would form no part of them.
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