I Married A Dead Man by Cornell Woolrich

they were saying to him seemed to be going over his head. She couldn't tell if his thoughts were on her, or a thousand miles away. But his eyes, at least, were.
                    She dropped her own.
                    And even after she did, she knew that his were still on her none the less.
     
     
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                    As they climbed the stairs together, after, when everyone had gone, Mother Hazzard suddenly tightened an arm about her waist, protectively.
                    "You were so brave about it," she said. "You did just the right thing; to pretend not to know what it was she was playing. Oh, but my dear, my heart went out to you, for a moment, when I saw you standing there. That look on your face. I wanted to run to you and put my arms around you. But I took my cue from you, I pretended not to notice anything either. She didn't mean anything by it, she's just a thoughtless little fool."
                    Patrice moved slowly up the stairs at her side, didn't answer.
                    "But at the sound of the very first notes," Mother Hazzard went on ruefully, "he seemed to be right back there in the room with all of us again. So present , you could almost see him in front of your eyes. The Barcarolle. His favorite song. He never sat down to a piano but what he played it. Whenever and wherever you heard that being played, you knew Hugh was about someplace."
                    "The Barcarolle," Patrice murmured almost inaudibly, as if speaking to herself. "His favorite song."
     
     
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                    "--different now," Mother Hazzard was musing comfortably. "I was there once, as a girl, you know. Oh, many years ago. Tell me, has it changed much since those days?"
                    Suddenly she was looking directly at Patrice, in innocent exclusive inquiry.
                    "How can she answer that, Mother?" Father Hazzard cut in drily. "She wasn't there when you were, so how would she know what it was like then?"
                    "Oh, you know what I mean," Mother Hazzard retorted indulgently. "Don't be so hanged precise."
                    "I suppose it has," Patrice answered feebly, turning the handle of her cup a little further toward her, as if about to lift it, and then not lifting it after all.
                    "You and Hugh were married there, weren't you, dear?" was the next desultory remark.
                    Again Father Hazzard interrupted before she could answer, this time with catastrophic rebuttal. "They were married in London, I thought. Don't you remember that letter he sent us at the time? I can still recall it 'married here yesterday.' London letterhead."
                    "Paris," said Mother Hazzard firmly. "Wasn't it, dear? I still have it upstairs, I can get it and show you. It has a Paris postmark." Then she tossed her head at him arbitrarily. "Anyway, this is one question Patrice can answer for herself."
                    There was suddenly a sickening chasm yawning at her feet, where a moment before all had been security of footing, and she couldn't turn back, yet she didn't know how to get across.
                    She could feel their three pairs of eyes on her, Bill's were raised now too, waiting in trustful expectancy that in a moment, with the wrong answer, would change to something else.
                    "London," she said softly, touching the handle of her cup as if deriving some sort of mystic clairvoyance from it "But then we left immediately for Paris, on our honeymoon. I think what happened was, he began the letter in London, didn't have time to finish it, and then posted it from Paris."
                    "You see," said Mother Hazzard pertly, "I was partly right, anyhow."