That countenance, heavily,
flabbily good-natured, the eyes if stupid, also kind, was now marked
and riven with a flaming anger.
But Maggie was no coward. With her old gesture of self-command she
stilled her heart. "I'm very sorry, Grace," she said. "But it's only
for a month. I want to be alone with Paul."
Grace, her hands fumbling on the arms of her chair as though she
were blind, rose.
"You've hated my being here, Maggie . . . all this time I've seen
it. You've hated me. You don't know that you owe everything to me,
that you couldn't have managed the house, the shops, the servants--
nothing, nothing. This last year I've worked my fingers to the bone
for you and Paul. What do you think I get out of it? Nothing. It's
because I love Paul . . . because I love Paul. But you've hated my
doing things better than you, you've wanted me to fail, you've been
jealous, that's what you've been. Very well, then, I'll go. You've
made that plain enough at any rate. I'll leave to-morrow. I won't
wait another hour. And I'll never forgive you for this--never.
You've taken Paul away from me . . . all I've ever had.
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