Even when she tried to
force it so far into the background of her existence that it might
almost be counted as forgotten, it had a trick of rising before
her. It was the memory of the empty house as its emptiness had
struck to the centre of her being when she had turned from her
bedroom window after watching the servants drive away in their
cabs. It was also the memory of the hours which had followed--the
night in which nobody had been in any of the rooms--no one had gone
up or down the stairs--when all had seemed dark and hollow--except
the Night Nursery where Robin screamed, and her own room where she
herself cowered under the bed clothes and pulled the pillow over
her head. But though the picture would not let itself be blotted
out, its effect was rather to intensify her sense of relief because
she had slipped so safely from under the wheels of destiny.
"Sometimes," she revealed artlessly to Coombe, "while I am driving
in the park on a fine afternoon when every one is out and the
dresses look like the flower beds, I let myself remember it just
to make myself enjoy everything more by contrast."
The elderly woman who had been a nurse in her youth and who had
been sent by Lord Coombe temporarily to replace Louisa had not
remained long in charge of Robin. She was not young and smart
enough for a house on the right side of the right street, and
Feather found a young person who looked exactly as she should when
she pushed the child's carriage before her around the square.
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