She was neither one nor the other. She ate little, although
she was fond of sweets. Her rather heavy face, with no clearly cut
outline in it, was not the typical face for passion; but she was
capable of passion to an extraordinary degree, and what is more
remarkable, it was not explosive passion, or rather it was not
passion which she suffered to explode. I remember once when she was
a little mite she was asked out somewhere to tea. She was dressed
and ready, but it began to rain fast, and she was told she could not
go. She besought, but it was in vain. We could not afford cabs, and
there was no omnibus. Marie, finding all her entreaties were
useless, quietly walked out of the room; and after some little time
her mother, calling her and finding she did not come, went to look
for her. She had gone into the back-yard, and was sitting there in
the rain by the side of the water-butt. She was soaked, and her best
clothes were spoiled. I must confess that I did not take very kindly
to her. I was irritated at her slowness in learning; it was, in
fact, painful to be obliged to teach her. I thought that perhaps she
might have some undeveloped taste for music, but she showed none, and
our attempts to get her to sing ordinary melodies were a failure.
Pages:
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159