Again, I wonder with a sudden fear whether it is likely that our good old clergyman can be wrong, and Mr.and Miss Murdstone right, and that all the angels in Heaven can be destroying angels.

Again, if I move a finger or relax a muscle of my face, Miss Murdstone pokes me with her prayer-book, and makes my side ache.
Yes, and again, as we walk home, I note some neighbours looking at my mother and at me, and whispering.

Again, as the three go on arm-in-arm, and I linger behind alone, I follow some of those looks, and wonder if my mother's step be really not so light as I have seen it, and if the gaiety of her beauty be really almost worried away.

Again, I wonder whether any of the neighbours call to mind, as I do, how we used to walk home together, she and I; and I wonder stupidly about that, all the dreary dismal day.
There had been some talk on occasions of my going to boarding-school.
Mr.and Miss Murdstone had originated it, and my mother had of course agreed with them.

Nothing, however, was concluded on the subject yet.
In the meantime, I learnt lessons at home.