Anne Hennessey was a Canadian and a fine girl. She was a lady and had a lady's job—seventy-five a month and her own bathroom—and being the real thing she didn't put on any airs, but when she liked me made right up to me and we soon were pals. After work hours I'd sometimes go up to her at Mapleshade or she'd come down to me over the Elite.
I remember it was in my room one spring evening—me lying on the bed and Anne sitting by the open window—that she began to talk about the Fowlers. She was not one to carry tales, but I could see she had something on her mind and for the first time she loosened up. I was picking over a box of chocolates and I didn't give her a hint how keen I was to hear, acting like the candies had the best part of my attention. She began by saying the Doctor and Miss Sylvia didn't get on well.
"That's just like a novel," I answered, "the heroine's stepfather's always her natural enemy."
"He's not that in this case," said Anne—she speaks English fine, like the teachers in the High—"I'm sure he means well by her, but they can't get on at all, they're always quarreling."
"There's many a gilded home hides a tragedy. What do they fight about?"
"Things she does he disapproves of. She's very spoiled and self-willed. No one's ever controlled her and she resents it from him."
"What's he disapprove of?"
Anne didn't answer right off, looking thoughtful out of the window. Then she said slow as if she was considering her words:
"I'm going to tell you, Molly, because I know you're no gossip and can be trusted, and the truth is, I'm worried. I don't like the situation up at Mapleshade."
I swung my feet on to the floor and sat up on the edge of the bed, nibbling at a chocolate almond.