'No, I'm sorry, Jane. Until I hear from Bessie, or see for myself, that you are really trying to
behave better, you cannot be treated as a good, happy child, like my children.'
'What does Bessie say I have done?' I asked.
'Jane, it is not polite to question me in that way. If you cannot speak pleasantly, be quiet.'
I crept out of the sitting-room and into the small room next door, where I chose a book full of
pictures from the bookcase. I climbed on to the window-seat and drew the curtains, so that I was
completely hidden. I sat there for a while. Sometimes I looked out of the window at the grey
November afternoon, and saw the rain pouring down on the leafless garden. But most of the time I
studied the book and stared, fascinated, at the pictures. Lost in the world of imagination, I forgot my
sad, lonely existence for a while, and was happy. I was only afraid that my secret hiding-place might
be discovered.