Joy came upstairs at the end of it, red-eyed and crying, and gentle.
Gypsy was standing by the window.
"Gypsy." "Well." "I love auntie dearly, now I guess I do." "Of course," said Gypsy; "everybody does." "I hadn't the least idea it was so wicked--not the least _idea_.

Mother used to----" But Joy broke off suddenly, with quivering, crimson lips.
What that mother used to do Gypsy never asked; Joy never told her--either then, or at any other time..