sour heat comes gusting. I lie and remember the night. Some feeling—shame, or panic—flutters about my heart. I put my hand to the place where she has lain, and feel it cool.
She is changed with me. She is surer, kinder. Margaret brings water, and she fills me a bowl. ''Ready, miss?'' she says. ''Better use it quick.'' She wets a cloth and wrings it and, when I stand and undress, passes it, unasked, across my face and beneath my arms. I have become a child to her. She makes me sit, so she may brush my hair. She tuts: ''What tangles! The trick with tangles is, to start at the bottom ..."
Agnes had used to wash and dress me with quick and nervous fingers, wincing with every catching of the comb. One time I struck her with a slipper—so hard, she bled. Now I sit for Susan—Sue, she called herself, in the night—now I sit patiently while Sue draws out the knots from my hair, my eyes upon my own face in the glass . . .
Good girl.
Then: ''Thank you, Sue,'' I say.‖本‖作‖品‖由‖思‖兔‖網‖提‖供‖線‖上‖閱‖讀‖
I say it often, in the days and nights that follow. I never said it to Agnes. ''Thank you, Sue.'' ''Yes, Sue,'' when she bids me sit or stand, lift an arm or foot. ''No, Sue,'' when she is afraid my gown must pinch me.