Kitson, about whose person little white
strings and tapes seemed to be continually appearing and disappearing.
"Perhaps she's eaten something?" suggested Lady Charlotte.
When Mrs. Kitson had departed, Lady Charlotte turned to Sarah.
"What have you done to the poor child?" she said.
"Nothing," said Sarah. "I never want to see her again."
"Then you _have_ done something?" said Lady Charlotte.
"She's always crying," said Sarah, "and she calls her kitten Alice," as
though that were explanation sufficient.
The strange truth remains, however, that the night that followed this
conversation was the first unpleasant one that Sarah had ever spent; she
remained awake during a great part of it. It was as though the hours
that she had spent on that other afternoon, compelling, from her own
dark room, Mary's will, had attached Mary to her. Mary was there with
her now, in her bedroom. Mary, red-nosed, sniffing, her eyes wide and
staring.
"I want to go home."
"Silly little thing," thought Sarah. "I wish I'd never played with her."
In the morning Sarah was tired and white-faced.
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