She wished she might wake up
in her overcrowded stateroom and find that this hateful conversation
had been a dream.
But she could not do any of these brutal, silly, or impossible things.
She was not dreaming. All was true. Miss Rolls had meant well, and Mr.
Balm of Gilead did not exist. He was only Peter Rolls, a rich, selfish
fellow who thought girls who had to work fair game. His sister must
know his true inwardness. Probably she had learned through unpleasant
hushed-up experiences, through seeing skeletons unfleshed by Peter
stalk into the family cupboard.
"You ungrateful beast, behave yourself!" Miss Child boxed the ears of
her sulky ego and shook it.
The throaty quiver in the blackbird voice of the dangerous golliwog
went vibrating through Miss Rolls's conscience in a really painful
way. She felt as if she had had a shock of electricity. But, thank
goodness, the worst was over, and now that she had grasped safety (for
instinct said that the girl would not betray), she could afford to be
generous.
She reminded herself that she had acted entirely in self-defence, not
through malice, and she had not told a single lie about Peter.
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