Maggie had not, after all, the excuse and
defence of being a dreamy child. With her square body and plain
face, her clear, unspeculative eyes, her stolid movements, she could
have no claim to dreams. With a sudden desolate pang Maggie
suspected that Uncle Mathew was the only person who would ever
understand her. Well, then, she must train herself.
She would close doors, turn out lights, put things back where she
found them, mend her clothes, keep accounts. Indeed a new life was
beginning for her. She felt, with a sudden return to the days before
her walk on the moor, that if only her aunts would love her she
would improve much more rapidly. And then with her new independence
she assured herself that if they did not love her she most certainly
would not love them . . .
That night she sat opposite her aunt beside the fire. The house lay
dead and empty behind them. Aunt Anne was so neat in her thin black
silk, her black shining hair, her pale pointed face, a little round
white locket rising and falling ever so slowly with the lift of her
breast. There were white frills to her sleeves, and she read a slim
book bound in purple leather.
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