Even her father could have been
defended by that plea . . .
He was not radically bad, he was radically good, but he had never
known discipline or real sorrow or hardship. Wrapped in cotton wool
all his life, spoilt, indulged, treated by the world as men treat
women. His effeminacy was the result of his training because he had
always been sheltered. Now his contact with Maggie was presenting
him for the first time with Reality. Would he face and grapple with
it, or would he slip away, evade it, and creep back into his padded
castle?
The return to Skeaton and the winter that followed it did not answer
that question. Maggie, Grace, and Paul were figures, guarded and
defended, outwardly friendly. Grace behaved during those months very
well, but Maggie knew that this was a fresh sign of hostility. The
"Chut-Chut," "My dear child," and the rest that had been so
irritating had been after all signs of intimacy. They were now
withdrawn. Maggie made herself during that winter and the spring
that followed as busy as possible. She ruthlessly forbade all
thoughts of Martin, of the aunts, of London; she scarcely saw
Caroline, and the church was her fortress.
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