It was as if something that had been on it for years had dropped off and left it clear where before it had been blurred and indistinct.

No, that doesn't exactly describe it either.

I _can't_ describe it.

But I'll go on and say what he said.
After Mrs.Small had gone into the house, and he saw that she was sitting down with Cousin Grace in the library, he turned to me and said: "And so you came as Mary ?" I said yes, I did.
"Well, I--I got ready for Marie." But then I didn't quite understand, not even when I looked at him, and saw the old understanding twinkle in his eyes.
"You mean--you thought I was coming as Marie, of course," I said then.
"Yes," he nodded.
"But I came as Mary." "I see now that you did." He drew in his breath with a queer little catch to it; then he got up and walked up and down the _piazza_ again.
(Why do old folks always walk up and down the room like that when they're thinking hard about something?
Father always does; and Mother does lots of times, too.) But it wasn't but a minute this time before Father came and sat down.
"Well, Mary," he began; and his voice sounded odd, with a little shake in it.

"You've told me your story, so I suppose I may as well tell you mine--now.