She had never confessed such a horror to herself, but one does not love another human being whose main aim toward one is to compress, to stiffen, to make move in a step with itself.

Annie folded up the untidy embroidery.

As she did so, she dropped her needle and also her thimble.

The needle lay glittering beside her chair, the thimble rolled noiselessly over the trailing fold of her muslin gown into the folds of Margaret's white silk.

Margaret felt an odd delight in that.