''"Mr Lilly: on the Cleland. Grivet of Paris claims no knowledge of the lost, sodomitical matter. Shall I pursue?''"
My uncle hears me read, his eyes creased hard behind their lenses.
''What think you, Maud?'' he says. ''—Well, never mind it now. We must leave the Cleland to languish, and hope for more in the spring. So, so. Let me see . . .'' He divides the slips of paper upon his desk. ''Now, The Festival of the Passions. Have we still the second volume, on loan from Hawtrey? You must copy it, Maud ..."
''I will,'' I say.
You think me meek. How else should I answer? Once, early on, I forget myself, and yawn. My uncle studies me. He has taken his pen from his page, and slowly rolls its nib.
''It appears you find your occupation dull,'' he says at last. ''Perhaps you would like to return to your room.'' I say nothing. ''Should you like it?''
''Perhaps, sir,'' I say, after a moment.
''Perhaps. Very good. Put back your book then, and go. But, Maud—'' This last, as I cross to the door. ''Do you instruct Mrs Stiles to keep the fuel from your fire. You don''t suppose I shall pay, to keep you warm in idleness, hmm?''
I hesitate, then go. This is, again, in winter—it seems always winter there! I sit wrapped in my coat until made to dress for dinner. But at the table, when Mr Way brings the food to my plate, my uncle stops him. ''No meat,'' he says, laying a napkin across his lap, ''for idle girls. Not in this house.''┆┆思┆┆兔┆┆網┆┆