A sort of angry shadow passed over the boy s face.
My mother died when I was born and it makes him wretched to look at
me. He thinks I don t know, but I ve heard people talking. He almost
hates me.
He hates the garden, because she died, said Mary half speaking to
herself.
What garden? the boy asked.
Oh! just just a garden she used to like, Mary stammered. Have you
been here always?
Nearly always. Sometimes I have been taken to places at the seaside,
but I won t stay because people stare at me. I used to wear an iron
thing to keep my back straight, but a grand doctor came from London to
see me and said it was stupid. He told them to take it off and keep me
out in the fresh air. I hate fresh air and I don t want to go out.
I didn t when first I came here, said Mary. Why do you keep looking
at me like that?
Because of the dreams that are so real, he answered rather fretfully.
Sometimes when I open my eyes I don t believe I m awake.
We re both awake, said Mary. She glanced round the room with its high
ceiling and shadowy corners and dim fire-light. It looks quite like a
dream, and it s the middle of the night, and everybody in the house is
asleep everybody but us. We are wide awake.
I don t want it to be a dream, the boy said restlessly.
Mary thought of something all at once.
If you don t like people to see you, she began, do you want me to go
away?
He still held the fold of her wrapper and he gave it a little pull.
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