She dragged the great roll of evil smelling grayish unbleached calico
from the schoolroom cupboard and heaved it on to the table. It was
very heavy. The scissors were blunt and left deep red-blue
indentations on finger and thumb. She was rather pleased that the
scissors hurt so much.

"Father doesn't care a single bit, he hates me," she said, "and I hate
him. Oh, I do."

She would not think of the morning. Not now, with this fire of
impotent resentment burning in her, would she take out those memories
and look at them. Those were not thoughts to be dragged through the
litter of unbleached cotton cuttings. She worked on doggedly,
completed the tale of hot heavy little garments, gathered up the
pieces into the waste-paper basket and put away the roll.

Not till the paint had been washed from her hands, and the crumbled
print dress exchanged for a quite respectable muslin did she
consciously allow the morning's memories to come out and meet her
eyes. Then she went down to the arbour where she had shelled peas only
that morning.

"It seems years and years ago," she said. And sitting there, she
slowly and carefully went over everything. What he had said, what she
had said. There were some things she could not quite remember. But she
remembered enough. "Brother artists" were the words she said oftenest
to herself, but the words that sank themselves were, "young and
innocent and beautiful like--like--"