“Didn't you—ask him?”
“No, I didn't.”
“Maria.”
“Well, what?”
“Maria, aren't you going to marry him if he asks you?”
“No,” said Maria, “I am never going to marry him, if that is what you want to know. I am never going to marry George Ramsey.”
Lily sobbed.
“I should think you would be ashamed of yourself. I should think any girl would, acting so,” said Maria. Her voice was a mere whisper, but it was cruel. She felt that she hated Lily. Then she realized how icy cold the girl was and how she trembled from head to feet in a nervous chill. “You'll catch your death,” she said.
“Oh, I don't care if I do!” Lily said, in her hysterical voice, which had now a certain tone of comfort.
Maria considered again how much she despised and hated her, and again Lily shook with a long tremor. Maria got up and tiptoed over to her closet, where she kept a little bottle of wine which the doctor had ordered when she first came to Amity. It was not half emptied. A wineglass stood on the mantel-shelf, and Maria filled it with the wine by the light of the moon. Then she returned to Lily.