She ignored him, continuing her snail’s pace down the stairs until she reached his pachyderm bulk. “Olivia,” she mumbled, with a vital eagerness. “It’s Olivia come back to me. Oh, my sweet, sweet darling...”
“No, Sarah,” said the fat man, taking her hand gently. “Don’t excite yourself. This isn’t Olivia, Sarah. It’s Alice — Alice Mayhew, Sylvester’s girl, come from England. You remember Alice, little Alice? Not Olivia, Sarah.”
“Not Olivia?” The old woman peered across the banister, her wrinkled lips moving. “Not Olivia?”
The girl jumped up. “I’m Alice, Aunt Sarah. Alice—”
Sarah Fell darted suddenly past the fat man and scurried across the room to seize the girl’s hand and glare into her face. As she studied those shrinking features her expression changed to one of despair. “Not Olivia. Olivia’s beautiful black hair... Not Olivia’s voice. Alice? Alice?” She dropped into Alice’s vacated chair, her skinny broad shoulders sagging, and began to weep. They could see the yellow skin of her scalp through the sparse gray hair.
Dr. Reinach roared: “Milly!” in an enraged voice. Mrs. Reinach popped into sight like Jack-in-the-box. “Why did you let her leave her room?”
“B-but I thought she was—” began Mrs. Reinach, stammering.
“Take her upstairs at once!”
“Yes, Herbert,” whispered the sparrow, and Mrs. Reinach hurried downstairs in her wrapper and took the old woman’s hand and, unopposed, led her away. Mrs. Fell kept repeating, between sobs: “Why doesn’t Olivia come back? Why did they take her away from her mother?” until she was out of sight.
“Sorry,” panted the fat man, mopping himself. “One of her spells. I knew it was coming on from the curiosity she exhibited the moment she heard you were coming, Alice. There is a resemblance; you can scarcely blame her.”