"Your hot water, Miss Maggie."
She turned round, blushing at being caught staring up at a cuckoo-clock like a baby in her nightdress, to face the wrinkled old woman who the night before had brought her, with a grudging countenance, her supper.Maggie had thought then that this old Martha did not like her and resented the extra work that her stay in the house involved; she was now more than ever sure of that dislike.
"I thought I was to be called at half-past seven.""Eight on Sundays," said the old woman."I hope you're better this morning, miss."Maggie felt this to be deeply ironical and flushed.
"I'm quite well, thank you," she said stiffly."What time is breakfast on Sundays?""The prayer-bell rings at a quarter to nine, miss."They exchanged no more conversation.