care of you.’ Kind words, were they not? I suppose I remember them because they were kind. It’s little enough I remember besides—little enough, little enough!”
“Had you no father or mother to take care of you?”
“Father?—I never saw him—I never heard mother speak of him. Father? Ah, dear! he is dead, I suppose.”
“And your mother?”
“I don’t get on well with her. We are a trouble and a fear to each other.”
A trouble and a fear to each other! At those words the suspicion crossed my mind, for
the unhappy woman whom I had met in the night-time with Anne Catherick—we had made some advance, at least, towards connecting the probably defective condition of the poor creature’s intellect with the peculiarity of her being dressed all in white, and with the continuance, in her maturer years, of her