'Dear grandmother, what harm have I done?' faltered Mary.
'What harm? You are a spy. Your very existence is a torment and a
danger. Would to God that you were married. Yes, married to a
chimney-sweep, even--and out of my way.'
'If that is your only difficulty,' said Mary, haughtily, 'I dare say Mr.
Hammond would be kind enough to marry me to-morrow, and take me out of
your ladyship's way.'
Lady Maulevrier's head sank back upon her pillows, those velvet and
satin pillows, rich with delicate point lace and crewel-work adornment,
the labour of Mary and Fraeulein, pillows which could not bring peace to
the weary head, or deaden the tortures of memory. The pale face
recovered its wonted calm, the heavy lips drooped over the weary eyes,
and for a few moments there was silence in the room.
Then Lady Maulevrier raised her eyelids, and looked at her granddaughter
imploringly, pathetically.
'Forgive me, Mary,' she said. 'I don't know what I was saying just now;
but whatever it was, forgive and forget it. I am a wretched old woman,
heart sick, heart sore, worn out by pain and weariness.
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