"I tried giving you your head," she raged in conclusion; "I let you work
through that crazy stage fever; I gave in about that man Phipps coming up
to Maine, in the hope that you'd find out what a fool he is. That wasn't
enough! You had to write to him. Very well, said I; go ahead and write to
him. I flattered myself that you might develop a little sense. But I was
mistaken. You haven't got the judgment of a ten-year-old child. Therefore
I intend to treat you like a child. From this time on you are not to
write to him at all. And you'll get no allowance. I'll buy you what you
need, and you'll account for all the pin-money you spend, down to every
postage stamp. Do you understand?"
Eleanor was by this time at the door, standing with her hand on the knob,
straight, pale, and defiant, but quivering in every limb. She felt as
beaten, bruised, and humiliated as if the violence directed against her
had been physical. A sick longing surged over her for Aunt Enid, into
whose arms she could rush for comfort. But there was no Aunt Enid to turn
to, and it was no use seeking Aunt Isobel, whose sole advice in such a
crisis was to apologize and propitiate.
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