If you
haven't nerves, you can't get nervous, can you?"
"No, I can't get nervous." Yet while I spoke, I was conscious of a
shiver deep down in me, as if my senses reacted again to the dread that
permeated the atmosphere.
As soon as I could, I escaped to my room, and I was sitting there over a
book, when the maid--her name was Hopkins, I had discovered--came in on
the pretext of inquiring if I had everything I needed. One of the
innumerable servants had already turned down my bed, so when Hopkins
appeared at the door, I suspected at once that there was a hidden motive
underlying her ostensible purpose.
"Mrs. Vanderbridge told me to look after you," she began. "She is afraid
you will be lonely until you learn the way of things."
"No, I'm not lonely," I answered. "I've never had time to be lonely."
"I used to be like that; but time hangs heavy on my hands now. That's
why I've taken to knitting." She held out a gray yarn muffler. "I had an
operation a year ago, and since then Mrs. Vanderbridge has had another
maid--a French one--to sit up for her at night and undress her. She is
always so fearful of overtaxing us, though there isn't really enough
work for two lady's-maids, because she is so thoughtful that she never
gives any trouble if she can help it.
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