Maggie had kept the shawl she had taken out with her, and, clutching it tight in her nervousness, drew it round her as if huddling in it for shelter, covering herself with it for humility.

She looked out as from under an improvised hood--the sole headgear of some poor woman at somebody's proud door; she waited even like the poor woman; she met her friend's eyes with recognitions she couldn't suppress.

She might sound it as she could--"What question then ?"--everything in her, from head to foot, crowded it upon Charlotte that she knew.

She knew too well--that she was showing; so that successful vagueness, to save some scrap of her dignity from the imminence of her defeat, was already a lost cause, and the one thing left was if possible, at any cost, even that of stupid inconsequence, to try to look as if she weren't afraid.

If she could but appear at all not afraid she might appear a little not ashamed--that is not ashamed to be afraid, which was the kind of shame that could be fastened on her, it being fear all the while that moved her.