‘Dainty,’ I said in a sort of pant, as I did. ‘Dainty, she must have known. She must have known it, all along. She must have sent me there, at Gentleman’s side, knowing he meant at last to—Oh!’ My voice grew hoarse. ‘She sent me there, so he would leave me in that place and bring her Maud. It was only ever Maud she wanted. She kept me safe, and gave me up, so Maud, so Maud—’ But then, I grew still. I was thinking of Maud, starting up with the knife. I was thinking of Maud, letting me hate her. I was thinking of Maud, making me think she’d hurt me, to save me knowing who had hurt me most . . .
