Molly slowly crossed the linen-press room, and stood by the window.
"There, child," exclaimed Jane, "you're exactly in my light. If you have anything to say, say it and have done with it. By the way, how is Nora? I hope they're not spoiling her at the Grange."
"Nora is getting on nicely, thank you."
"It was a lucky chance for her," continued Jane, "that she happened to be near the Grange when she got hurt. Hester Thornton is sure to give her every comfort. Molly, you're exactly in my light."
Molly moved to one side of the window.
Jane Macalister went on vigorously with her work, the fluff from the feathers rose in the air, the smell of the lime was pungent.
"Faugh," continued Jane; "here's a lump for you. Susan Hicks, you'd better keep out of my way for the present. 'Pon my word! look at this quill, why I could make a pen with it; disgraceful, perfectly disgraceful. Molly, I wish you wouldn't fidget. What in the world do you want to say to me?"
"I want to ask you this," said Molly. "Why has mother gone to London?"
Jane bent low over her work, some fluff got into her nose and made her sneeze.