Of late this
usually meant that she had quarreled with Margaret. And these
arguments, Mary knew, somehow centered on herself.
"Where is she?" the mother burst all at once. Like Michael she often
kept her deepest feelings under lock and key, revealing to the world
only a lesser parody of herself. But now something had happened---
"Go and find her!" she cried, at long last giving in. "And if she has
gone to that witch's hole of hers, then. . .tell her she may just as
well stay there, and the Devil take her! I've had enough of it, do you
hear? Let them burn her at the stake; I'll not have her bring shame
upon this house. It's all the same to me!" And she ran to the armchair
by the fireplace, hiding her face in her hands.
The daughter followed, more confused and forlorn than ever. She loved
her aunt, though she also feared her, and could not understand the
vindictive nature of the words spoken against her.
"Mother, what are you saying? What are you thinking of?"
The hands came down to reveal a tired, careworn face no longer able to
think of pity.
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