"So, you never knew she was a witch? How blind a woman
can be, when she wants to. Why, you don't even know, still haven't
guessed---" She faltered, then cried out. "Dear God, I cannot bear
this cross any longer! You have taken my husband, my beloved son, and
left me with his temptress." Then turning to Mary. "Go to her! Get
out, I tell you! She will tell you everything, everything now. Make
your home with her if you like. Leave me to my wretched memories." And
physical sorrow bent her nearly double in the chair.
The girl took a step to console her, but the hateful, flashing eyes
turned on her erased any such notion. She hesitated, then ran to the
door in dismay, and out into the bracing, October wild. It seemed the
last vestiges of solace and sanctuary were crumbling around her,
leaving a world too terrible, too full of dark meaning to endure. She
ran.
But her steps were not blind. Instinctively she stayed on the western
side of the rise, which hid her from sight of the road. And though she
had rarely seen it, the back of her mind knew where her aunt's strange
and secret abode lay: beyond the ravine, in land too wild and rocky to
grow or graze.
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