They went in silence.
Maggie longed for a word of approval; a short sentence such as "How
nice you're looking, Maggie," or "I like your dress, Maggie," or
"That's a new dress, dear--I like it," would be enough. After that
Maggie felt that she could face a multitude of wild and savage
Warlocks, that she could walk into the Warlock drawing-room with a
fine brave carriage, above all, that she would feel a sudden warm
affection for her aunt that would make all their future life
together easy.
But Aunt Anne said nothing. She looked exactly as she had looked
upon her first appearance at St. Dreots, so thin and tall, with her
pale tapering face and her eyes staring before her as though they
saw nothing.
Maggie, as they turned up into Garrick Street, said:
"I hope you like my new dress, aunt."
Aunt Anne turned to her for a moment, smiled gently and then
vaguely, as though her mind were elsewhere, answered:
"I liked your old dress better, dear."
Maggie's face flamed; her temper flared into her eyes. For a moment
she had wild thoughts of breaking into open rebellion. She hated her
dress, she hated London, above all, she hated Aunt Anne.
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