. . Oh, dear, these stairs are a
trial . . . yes, she might do that, and then she'd only be an hour
altogether. I'll suggest that . . ."
Her murmur was a cheerful monotonous sound accompanying her as she
went. She would stop and rub the side of her nose with her thumb,
considering. In the house, when there was no fear of callers, she
wore large loose slippers that tap-tapped as she went. In the
evenings she sat in Paul's study all amongst the Cornhills, The
Temple Bars, and The Bible Concordances. They were very cosy and
happy, and she talked incessantly. For some reason she did not dare
to ask him whether he were not happier now that Maggie was away.
She did not dare. There was not the complete confidence that there
had been. Paul was strange a little, bewitched by Maggie's
strangeness . . . There was something there that Grace did not
understand. So she said nothing, but she tried to convey to him, in
the peculiar warmth of her good-night kiss, what she felt.
Then Maggie returned. She came back in her black clothes and with
her pale face. Her aunt had died. She was more alone even than
before.
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