To Maggie the house seemed to say something,
something comforting and reassuring.
Standing there, she registered her vow that through all her life she
would care for no one. No one should touch her.
Had there been an observer he might have found some food for his
irony in the contemplation of that small, insignificant figure so
ignorant of life and so defiant of it. He would have found perhaps
something pathetic also. Maggie thought neither of irony nor of
pathos, but turned homewards with her mouth set, her eyes grave, her
heart controlled.
As she walked back the sun broke through the mist, and, turning, she
could see Borhedden like a house on fire, its windows blazing
against the sky.
It was natural that her aunt should wish to return to London as soon
as possible. For one thing, Ellen the cook had packed her clothes
and retired to some place in the village, there to await the
departure of the defeated family. Then the house was not only
unpleasant by reason of its atmosphere and associations, but there
were also the definite discomforts of roofs through which the rain
dripped and floors that swayed beneath one's tread.
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