To the atmosphere of the place Miss Avies, although
she lived there for a number of years, had contributed nothing.
It had all the desolate forlornness of a habitation in which no
human being has dwelt for a very long time; there was dust on the
mantelpiece, a melancholy sputtering of coal choked with cinders and
gasping for breath in the fireplace, stuffy hot clamminess beating
about the unopened windows. Along the breadth of the faded brown
carpet some fifty cane-bottomed chairs were pressed tightly in rows
together, and in front of the window, facing the chairs, was a
little wooden table with a chair beside it, on the table a glass of
water and a Bible.
When Maggie and her aunts entered the chairs were almost all
occupied and they were forced to sit at the end of the last row but
one. The meeting had apparently not yet begun, and many heads were
turned towards them as they took their places. Maggie fancied that
the glances directed at herself were angry and severe, but that was
very possibly her imagination. She soon recognised people known to
her--Miss Pyncheon, calm and placid; Mrs. Smith, Caroline's mother,
very stout, hot, and self-important; Amy Warlock, proud and severe;
and Miss Avies herself standing, like a general surveying his
forces, behind the table.
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