He thought, as he got up, "It's that damned young feller I gave
dinner to. I'd like to wring his neck."
But he said no more, bent closer and kissed her, said he was soon
coming again, and went away.
After he had gone the house sank into its grey quiet again. What was
Maggie thinking? No one knew. What was Aunt Anne thinking? No one
knew . . . But there was something between these two, Maggie and
Aunt Anne. Every one felt it and longed for the storm to burst. Bad
enough things outside with Mr. Warlock dead, members leaving right
and left, and the Chapel generally going to wrack and ruin, but
inside!
Old Martha, who had never liked Maggie, felt now a strange,
uncomfortable pity for her. She didn't want to feel pity, no, not
she, pity for no one, and especially not for an ugly untidy girl
like that, but there it was, she couldn't help herself! Such a child
that girl, and she'd been as nearly dead as nothing, and now she was
suffering, suffering awful . . . Any one could see . . . All that
Warlock boy. Martha had seen him come stumbling down the stairs that
day and had heard Maggie's cry and then the fall.
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