I glance between them. ''She knew of my fortune, then,'' I say after a moment. ''So anyone might, I suppose. She knew—who? My uncle? Some servant of the house?''
''She knew you, Maud, you; before almost anyone.''
The woman lifts her eyes to mine again at last, and nods. ''I knew your mother,'' she says.
My mother! My hand goes to my throat—a curious thing, for my mother''s portrait lies with my jewels, its ribbon fraying, I have not worn it in years. My mother! I came to London to escape her. Now, all at once, I think of her grave in the park at Briar—untended, untrimmed, its white stone creeping with grey.▲思▲兔▲網▲
The woman still watches. I let my hand drop.
''I don''t believe you,'' I say. ''My mother? What was her name?__
tell me that.''
She begins to look sly. ''I know it,'' she says, ''but won''t say it just yet. I''ll tell you the letter that started it, though. That was a M, like what starts your name. I''ll tell you the second letter. That was a I A.—Why, that''s like your name, too! The next letter, though, is where they runs off different. That was aR . . .''
She knows it, I know she knows it. How can she? I study her face—her eye, her lip. They seem familiar to me. What is it? Who is she?
''A nurse,'' I say. ''You were a nurs