The morning had passed, Angus MacCormick had said a storm was coming, and he was never wrong. We were already into the afternoon. I was becoming more and more concerned that my aunt and uncle would have returned. And that the storm might come early.“Go, Dobbin,” I told him, but he did not alter his gait.As I bumped up and down on the narrow road, I tried to sort through what I had heard and seen in Brindle. How could a small town, perhaps even a village, have a shop such as Jackdaws? What of the shantung dress and other articles that were all “from the same source”? I had an uneasy feeling that I could not define. Mrs. Kitteridge had said too much, and I was “not yet family.” They need not be concerned. I had understood little of their conversation. There had been an air of secrecy about the two of them and about the town, an undertow of menace. And what about Eli Stuart? They wanted nothing but to be rid of him and could not manage it.The Decree of Three. What was that?The sun that had been shining was shining no longer.
