But I don’t have the final, incontrovertible proof. “Betsy,” my husband always tells me, “you’re a clever woman, a quick observer, and you have a sharp eye, but you let your temperament lead you astray, and then you make up your mind too hastily.” Well, my husband has known me for thirty-two years, and perhaps, indeed probably, he’s right to warn me against forming a judgement in too much of a hurry. So as there is no conclusive evidence, I have to make myself suppress my suspicions, especially in front of other people. But whenever I meet him, whenever he comes over to me in that forthright, friendly way of his, my heart misses a beat. And a little voice inside me says: he and no one else was the murderer. So I am going to try reconstructing the entire course of events again, just for my own satisfaction. About six years ago my husband had come to the end of his term of service as a distinguished government official in the colonies, and we decided to retire to some quiet place in the English countryside, to spend the rest of our days, already approaching their evening, with such pleasures of life as flowers and books.
What do You think about The Governess And Other Stories?
