Explore "The Square Emerald" by Edgar Wallace on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
MRS. GRETA GURDEN seldom permitted herself the luxury of brooding upon her injuries. She was no philosopher, and it was sheer necessity which made her disregard the irritations, petty and great, of life, and concentrate her mind upon pleasant things. But she found herself helpless with a leg that throbbed and throbbed, and the memory of Anita Bellini's insolence rankled as sorely. She was propped up in bed with a heap of papers on her lap, and though there was no immediate need for the work she had taken in hand, and, in truth, sought it only as a relief from boredom, she permitted herself the illusion that she was the victim of a taskmistress who was not satisfied with her normal and heavy exactions, but must needs add to her offence this tormentation of a sick woman.
Old letters, old bills, a receipt or two, a few ancient telegrams about nothing in particular, dozens of letters dealing earnestly with forgotten accounts, an interminable correspondence between Anita and a house agent --she turned the pages one by one, sorting the sheep from the goats.