"I'm very sorry," she said, almost whispering. Why did fate play
against her? Why, when she might have fought the Uncle Mathew battle
victoriously, had Grace suddenly been given this weapon with which
to strike?
"I'll go and do them now," she said. "I can take those flowers out
of the drawing-room."
"It's done," Grace slowly savouring her triumph. "I did them myself
this afternoon."
"Then you should have told me that!" Maggie burst out. "It's not
fair making me miserable just for your own fun. You don't know how
you hurt, Grace. You're cruel, you're cruel!"
She had a horrible fear lest she should burst into tears. To save
that terrible disaster she jumped up and ran out of the room,
hearing behind her Paul's admonitory "Maggie, Maggie!"
It is to be expected that Mrs. Maxse and Miss Purves made the most
of their story. The Rector's wife and a drunken uncle! No, it was
too good to be true . . . but it was true, nevertheless. Christmas
passed and the horrible damp January days arrived. Skeaton was a
dripping covering of emptiness--hollow, shallow, deserted. Every
tree, Maggie thought, dripped twice as much as any other tree in
Europe.
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