Now it was time to go out,
now to go to bed, now to eat, now to be taken downstairs into that
horrid room where she couldn't move because things would tumble off the
tables so ... all this prevented her own life when she would sit and
try, and try, and remember _what_ it was all like once, and wonder why
when once things had been so beautiful they were so ugly and
disappointing now.
Now Rose had come, and she could talk to Rose about it. "What she sees
in that ugly old doll!" said the nurse to the housemaid. "You can take
my word, Mary, she'll sit in that window looking down at the gardens,
nursing that rag and just say nothing. It fair gives you the creeps ...
left too much to herself, the poor child is. As for those old women
downstairs, if I 'ad my way--but there! Living's living, and bread and
butter's bread and butter!"
But, of course, Angelina's heart was bursting with affection, and there
had been, until Rose's arrival, no one upon whom she might bestow it.
Rose might seem to the ordinary observer somewhat unresponsive. She sat
there, whether it were tea-time, dressing-time, bed-time, always staring
in front of her, her mouth closed, her arms, bow-shaped, standing
stiffly away from her side, taking, it might seem, but little interest
in her mistress's confidences.
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