The cynical Hortense, prepared as she was for anything strange and unexpected in Sarah's actions, was, nevertheless, puzzled now.
One afternoon, wet and dismal, the two of them sitting in a little box of a room in the little box of a house, Sarah huddled in a chair, her eyes staring in front of her, Hortense sewing, her white, bony fingers moving sharply like knives, the maid asked a question: "What do you see--Sar-ah--in that infant ?" "What infant ?" asked Sarah, without moving her eyes.
"That Mary with whom now you always are." "We play games together," said Sarah.
"You do not.

You may be playing a game--she does nothing.

She is terrified--out of her life." "She is very silly.

It's funny how silly she is.

I like her to be frightened." Mary's nurse told Mary's mother that, in her opinion, Sarah was not a nice child.