She closed the door, stood
for a moment in the little hall.
"I don't care what's going to happen!" she cried aloud. So ended her
life in that house.
CHAPTER III
THE LONDON HOUSE
It was strange after this that the start on the London journey
should be so curiously unexciting; it was perhaps the presence of
Aunt Anne that reduced everything to an unemotional level. Maggie
wondered as she sat in the old moth-eaten, whisky-smelling cab
whether her Aunt Anne was ever moved about anything. Then something
occurred that showed her that, as yet, she knew very little about
her aunt. As, clamping down the stony hill, they had a last glimpse
at the corner of the two Vicarage chimneys, looking above the high
hedge like a pair of inquisitive lunatics, Maggie choked. She
pressed her hands together, pushed her hair from her face and, in so
doing, touched her black hat.
"Your hat's crooked, Maggie dear," said her aunt gently. The girl's
hot hands clutched the soft packet of sandwiches and a little black
handbag that yesterday Aunt Anne had bought for her in the village.
It was a shabby little bag, and had strange habits of opening when
it was not expected to do so and remaining shut when something was
needed from it.
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