t my fault?“

    ‘Your fault?  be your fault?“ Miss inter s nigo do .“

    S understood more t to reveal. “ you, Margaret? My sister is a stranger to you. And it is  distresses you so, is it? tell me, Margaret, ter?”

    In part s Miss inter  to join me in tees. Bereaved to it t. ten s-tempered and contrary, I o like Miss inter. In particular I liked tly noones, so gro er, and ter’s sorro my o

    aken place for me in the days before I could remember.

    I c already separated me from my sister. Soon s and be lost to us, a ne oto rusted to one o say?

    I felt Miss inter’s curious gaze upon my face. I restrained my folly.

    ‘how long?“ I asked.

    ‘Days. A week, per long.“

    I sat up late t niger. I  t day, too. e sat, reading aloud or in silence for long periods, on coming to interrupt our vigil. o take my presence tural toer as ly about Emmeline’s decline. And sometimes t ening  and finisence sometimes. uts ran into Emma, ace Diamonds, e. Fragments. It didn’t matter. Art, its completeness, its formedness, its finiso console. ords, on t ter to t of Emmeline’s breathing.

    tomorroure. In a   to leave. tariness offered by its garden, ed of t present. tant still. As for Cmas… In our ive season follooo close upon my birto be able to bear tion of tter  of my fatmas cards from my parents’ feas, snoting aside t sed a secret pile of ture at e, perfect infant; t gazing back at  in tras of them.

    Miss inter, I kne object if I asked to stay.