She was very quiet, and agreed to everything that Grace
said. Nevertheless, although she agreed, she was more antagonistic
than she had been. She had now something that intensely preoccupied
her. Grace could see that she was always thinking about something
that had nothing to do with Skeaton or Paul or the house. She was
more absent-minded than ever, forgot everything, liked best to sit
in her bedroom all alone.
"Oh, she's mad!" said Grace. "She's really mad! Just fancy if she
should go right off her head!" Grace was now so desperately
frightened that she lay awake at night, sweating, listening to every
sound. "If she should come and murder me one night," she thought.
Another thought she had was: "It's just as though she sees some one
all the time who isn't there."
Then came 13th March, that dreadful day that would be never
forgotten by Grace so long as she lived. During the whole of the
past week Skeaton had been delivered up to a tempest of wind and
rain. The High Street, emptied of human beings, had glittered and
swayed under the sweeping storm. The Skeaton sea, possessing
suddenly a life of its own, had stormed upon the Skeaton promenade,
and worried and lashed and soaked that hideous structure to within
an inch of its unnatural life.
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