I hope
you're well."
Maggie realised then the terrified distress in Grace's eyes. The
grey stocking had fallen to the ground, and Grace stared at Uncle
Mathew in a kind of fascinated horror. She realised of course at
once that he was what she would call "tipsy." He was not "tipsy,"
but nevertheless "tipsy" enough for Grace. Maggie saw her take in
every detail of his appearance--his unshaven cheeks, the wisps of
hair over the bald top of his head, the spots on his waistcoat, the
mud on his boots, and again as she watched Grace make this summary,
love and protection for that unhappy man filled her heart. For
unhappy he was! She saw at once that he had had a long slide
downhill since his last visit to her. He was frightened--frightened
immediately now of Grace and the room and the physical world--but
frightened also behind these things at some spectre all his own.
Grace sat down and tried to recover herself. She began to talk in
her society voice. Maggie knew that she was praying, over and over
again, with a monotony possible only to the very stupid, that there
would be no callers that afternoon.
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