Mrs Stiles watches me do it, with a curious expression. I never lie quite still until Barbara comes.
Meanwhile my uncle observes my work and finds my letters, my hand, my voice, greatly improved. He is used occasionally to entertaining gentlemen at Briar: now he has me stand for them and read. I read from foreign texts, not understanding the matter I am made to recite; and the gentlemen—like Mrs Stiles—watch me strangely. I grow used to that. When I have finished, at my uncle''s instruction I curtsey. I curtsey well. The gentlemen clap, then come to shake or stroke my hand. They tell me, often, how rare I am. I believe myself a kind of prodigy, and pink under their gazes.
So white blooms blush, before they curl and tumble. One day I arrive at my uncle''s room to find my little desk removed, and a place made ready for me among his books. He sees my look, and beckons me to him.
''Take off your gloves,'' he says. I do, and shudder to touch the surfaces of common things. It is a cold, still, sunless day. I have been at Briar, then, two years. My cheek is round as a child''s, and my voice is high. I have not yet begun to bleed as women do.