Bartley was
dressing Aunt Jane, and Aunt Barbara reading a letter to her. This
was surely a good moment; but she knew she must dress herself neatly,
and not look scared, if she did not mean to be suspected and stopped;
and she managed to get quietly into her little shaggy coat, her black
hat and feather and warm gloves--even her boots were remembered--and
then whispering to herself, "It can't be wrong to get away from being
made to tell stories! I'm going to Papa!" she softly opened the
door, went on tip-toe past Lady's Jane's door; then after the first
flight of stairs, rushed like the wind, unseen by anyone, got the
street door open, pulled it by its outside handle, and heard it shut!
It was done now! She was on the wide world--in the street! She
could not have got in again without knocking, ringing, and making her
attempt known; and she was far more terrified at the thought of Lady
Barbara's stern face and horror at her proceedings than even at the
long journey alone.
Every step was a little bit nearer Sylvia, Mary, and Papa--it made
her heart bound in the midst of its frightened throbs--every step was
farther away from Aunt Barbara, and she could hardly help setting off
in a run. It was a foggy day, when it was not so easy to see far,
but she longed to be out of Bruton Street, where she might be known;
yet when beyond the quiet familiar houses, the sense of being alone,
left to herself, began to get very alarming, and she could hardly
control herself to walk like a rational person to the cab-stand in
Davies Street.
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