''You grow clumsy,'' he says, one morning. I have mishandled a book. ''You think I have you come, day after day, to my library, to abuse it?''
''No, Uncle.''
''What? Do you mumble?''
''No, sir.''
He wets and purses his mouth, and studies me harder. When he speaks again, his tone is strange to me.
''What age are you?'' he says. I am surprised, and hesitate. He sees it. ''Don''t strike coy attitudes with me, miss! What age are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?—You may show astonishment. You think me insensible to the passage of years, because I am a scholar? Hmm?''▃思▃兔▃在▃線▃閱▃讀▃
''I am seventeen, Uncle.''
''Seventeen. A troublesome age, if we are to believe our own books.''
''Yes, sir.''
''Yes, Maud. Only remember: your business is not with belief, but with study. Remember this, also: you are not too great a girl— nor am I too aged a scholar—for me to have Mrs Stiles come and hold you still while I take a whip to you. Hmm? You''ll remember these things? Will you?''
''Yes, sir,'' I say.
It seems to me now, however, that I must remember too much. My face, my joints, are set aching with the effort of striking looks and poses. I can no longer say with certainty which of my actions— which of my feelings, even—are true ones