Explore "The Purple Fern" by Fergus Hume on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
In the dingy study an eloquent silence prevailed. After making her startling announcement, Prudence sat tearless, and with a drawn white face, plucking at the damp handkerchief she carried in her hands. Poor girl, she had wept until she could weep no more, and all she could do, with worn-out emotions, was to hold her peace, until Clarice could help her to continue the conversation. That young lady, as white-faced as her hostess, sat tongue-tied and horrified. She looked at the sad figure before her, at the grim line of theological books bound in calf, at the unclean window with its ragged curtains, and at the grimy carpet, worn and faded. It took her some time to collect her thoughts. When she did recover her speech, it was to energetically deny the truth of the girl's speech.
"I don't believe it," cried Clarice, decisively; "don't talk to me, Prudence," she went on, as the girl was about to speak, "you know perfectly well that Uncle Henry was murdered by that wretched Osip, and that a verdict to that effect was brought in by the jury. Besides, what possible object could your father have to commit murder?"