"Who told you I didn't care for you?"
"I didn't need to be told. I could see the difference."
Her mother sat fixed in a curious stillness. She held her elbows pressed tight against her sides. Her face was hard and still. Her eyes looked away across the room.
"You were different," she said. "You weren't like any of the others. I was afraid of you. You used to look at me with your little bright eyes. I felt as if you knew everything I was thinking. I never knew what you'd say or do next."
No. Her face wasn't hard. There was something else. Something clear.
Clear and beautiful.
"I suppose I—I didn't like your being clever. It was the boys I wanted to do things. Not you."
"Don't—Mamma darling—don't."
The stiff, tight body let go its hold of itself. The eyes turned to her again.
"I was jealous of you, Mary. And I was afraid for my life you'd find it out."