"You know, Mary, I've told you a thousand times that you're not to come
in here!" this from Mrs. Adams, who was obviously very angry indeed.
Mary was on her feet now and, as she looked across at Barbara, there was
in her glance a strange look, ironical, amused, inquisitive, even
affectionate. "Well, mother, I knew we mustn't. But Barbara wanted to
_look_ so I said we'd just _peep_, but that we weren't to touch
anything, and then Barbara couldn't help it, really; her shoulder just
brushed the shelf----" and still as she looked there was in her eyes
that strange irony: "Well, now you see me as I am--I'm bored by all this
pretending. It's gone on long enough. Are you going to give me away?"
But Barbara could do nothing. Her whole world was there, like the Nankin
vase, smashed about her feet, as it never, never would be again.
"So you did this, Barbara?" Mrs. Flint said.
"Yes," said Barbara. Then she began to cry.
VI
At home she was sent to bed. Her mother read her a chapter of the Gospel
according to St. Matthew, and then left her; she lay there, sick with
crying, her eyes stiff and red, wondering how she would ever get through
the weeks and weeks of life that remained to her.
Pages:
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211