It had always been so.

Since a tiny child she had always supposed that the shapes and forms with which she was presented were only masks to hide the real thing.

Such a view might lend interest to life, but it certainly made one careless; and although Uncle Mathew might understand it and put it down to the Cardinal imagination, she instinctively knew that Aunt Anne, unless Maggie definitely attributed it to religion, would be dismayed and even, if it persisted, angered.
Maggie had not, after all, the excuse and defence of being a dreamy child.

With her square body and plain face, her clear, unspeculative eyes, her stolid movements, she could have no claim to dreams.

With a sudden desolate pang Maggie suspected that Uncle Mathew was the only person who would ever understand her.