Then came the day when Grace, dusting in Maggie's bedroom,
discovered the bundle of letters. She read them, read them with
shame at her own dishonesty and anger at Maggie for making her
dishonest. To her virgin ignorance the passion in them spoke of
illicit love and the grossest immorality. Her heart burnt with a
strange mingling of envy, jealousy, loneliness, shame, and eagerness
to know more . . .
Then came Uncle Mathew's visit; then Caroline Purdie's disgrace. The
count was fully charged. Maggie, that strange girl found in the
heart of London's darkness, alone, without friends or parents, was a
witch, a devilish, potion-dealing witch, who might, at any time, fly
through the night-sky on a broom-stick as surely as any mediaeval
old hag. These visions might be exaggerated for many human beings,
not so for Grace. Having no imagination she was soaked in
superstition. She clung to a few simple pictures, and was exposed to
every terror that those pictures could supply.
Maggie now haunted her day and night. Everywhere she could feel
Maggie's eyes piercing her. A thousand times an hour she looked up
to see whether Maggie were not there in the room watching her.
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