'
'Very funny. We're queer people, Henrietta.'
'Are we? And I'm more theirs than yours.'
'As far as blood goes, yes.' She spoke very quietly, but she felt a
great desire to assert, for once, her own claims, instead of accepting
those of others. She wanted to tell Henrietta that in return for the
secret care, the growing affection she was giving, she demanded
confidence and love; but she had never asked for anything in her life.
She had taken coolly much she could easily have done without,
admiration and respect and the material advantages to which she had
been born, but she had asked for nothing. Cruelly conscious of all
that lay in the gift of Henrietta, who sat in a low chair, her chin on
the joined fingers of her hands, Rose continued to look at the fire.
'You mean I'm really more like you?' Henrietta said. 'Am I? I'm like
my father,' and she added softly, 'terribly.'
'Why terribly?'
Henrietta moved her feet. 'Oh, I don't know.'
'I wish you'd tell me.'
'He was queer. You said we all were, and I'm a Mallett, too, that's
all. Don't you think we ought to go and see about the dresses now?
Aunt Rose, they're bothering me to wear white, the only thing for a
young girl, but I want to wear yellow. Don't you think I might?'
Rose, who had felt herself on the brink of confidences, as though she
peered over a cliff, and watched the mists clear to show the secret
valley underneath, now saw the clouds thicken hopelessly, and
retreated from her position with an effort.
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