“Who is the girl who used to live in my room? Annabel Lee, the other girls call her. Who is she? What is there remarkable about her?”
To Priscilla’s astonishment Maggie started a step forward, her eyes blazed with an expression which was half frightened—half angry. She interlocked one soft hand inside the other, her face grew white, hard, and strained.
“You must not ask me about Annabel Lee,” she said in a whisper, “for I—I can tell you nothing about her. I can never tell you about her—never.”
Then she rushed to her sofa-bed, flung herself upon it face downwards, and burst into queer, silent, distressful tears.
Someone touched Priscilla softly on her shoulder.
“Let me take you to your room, Miss Peel,” said Nancy Banister. “Don’t take any notice of Maggie; she will be all right by-and-by.”
Nancy took Priscilla’s hand, and walked with her across the corridor.
“I am so sorry I said anything to hurt Miss Oliphant,” said Priscilla.
“Oh, you were not to blame. You could not know any better. Of course, now that you do know, you will never do it again.”
“But I don’t know anything now. Please will you tell me who Annabel Lee is?”