e, unvisited—
But I am alone and unvisited, now. And I shall have Richard
there, Richard will guide and advise me. Richard means to take us
a house, with rooms, with doors that will fasten—
Are you cold, miss?'' she says. Perhaps I have shivered. She rises,
to fetch me a shawl. I watch her walk. Diagonally she goes, over the
carpet—heedless of the design, the lines and diamonds and squares,
beneath her feet.
I watch and watch her. I cannot look too long, too narrowly at her, in her easy doing of commonplace things. At seven o''clock she makes me ready for supper with my uncle. At ten she puts me into my bed. After that, she stands in her room and I hear her sighing, and I lift my head and see her stretch and droop. Her candle lights her, very plainly; though I lie hidden in the dark. Quietly she passes, back and forth across the doorway—now stooping to pick up a fallen lace; now taking up her cloak and brushing mud from its hem. She does not kneel and pray, as Agnes did. She sits on her bed, out of my sight, but lifts her feet: I see the toe of one shoe put to the heel of the other and work it down. Now she stands, to undo the buttons of her gown; now she lets it fall, steps awkwardly out of her skirt; unlaces her stays, rubs her waist, sighs again. Now she steps away. I lift my head, to follow. She comes back, in her nightgown— shivering. I shiver, in sympathy. She yawns. I also yawn. She