If she took a step nearer, her hands went behind her back as if saying, "Grizel, don't ask us to open it; we are afraid." Perhaps it really did say the dear things that love writes.

Perhaps it was aghast at the way she was treating it.

Dear letter! Her mouth smiled to it, but her hands remained afraid.

As she stood irresolute, smiling, and afraid, she was a little like her mother.

I have put off as long as possible saying that Grizel was ever like her mother.