Awful noise it
made. Awful. She'd stood in the hall, looking up the stairs, her
heart beating like a hammer. Yes, just like a hammer! Then she'd
gone up. It wasn't a nice sight, the poor girl all in a lump on the
floor and Miss Anne just as she always looked before one of her
attacks, as though she were made of grey glass from top to toe . . .
But Martha hadn't pitied Maggie then. Oh, no. Might as well die as
not. Who wanted her? No one. Not even her young man apparently.
Better if she died. But slowly something happened to Martha. Not
that she was sentimental. Not in the least. But thoughts would steal
in--steal in just when you were at your work. The girl lying there
so good and patient--all the pots and pans winking at you from the
kitchen-wall. Must remember to order that ketchup--cold last night
in bed--think another blanket . . . yes, very good and patient.
Can't deny it. Always smiles just that same way. Smiles at every one
except Miss Arne. Won't smile at her. Wonder why not? Something
between those two. What about dinner? A little onion fry--that's the
thing these damp days--Onion fry--Onion Fry.
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