He was gentle and polite to every one, ate his
meals, took little walks out on to the moor and into the village,
but liked best to sit in front of the parlour window and look out on
to the heath and grass, watching the shadows and the sunlight and
the driving sheets of rain.
Mrs. Bolitho had a tender heart and Maggie shared in her
superstitious pity. Looking back to her youth she had always thought
Maggie a "wisht little thing." "Poor worm," what chance had she ever
had with that great scandalous chap of a father? She saw her still
in her shabby clothes trying to keep that dilapidated house
together. No, what chance had she ever had? She was still a "wisht
little thing."
Nor did it need very shrewd eyes to see how desperately devoted
Maggie was to Martin. The sight of that touched the hearts of every
human being in the farm. Not that Maggie was foolish; she did not
hang about Martin all the time, she never, so far as Mrs. Bolitho
could see, kissed him or fondled him, or was with him when he did
not want her. She was not sentimental to him, not sighing nor
groaning, nor pestering him to answer romantic questions.
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