Her step-mother had said, "You haven't changed one bit!" But that was
not true. Of course she had changed--changed very much, outwardly and
inwardly, since she was nineteen. For one thing, the awful physical
strain of her work in France had altered her, turned her from a girl into
a woman. She had seen many terrible things, and she had met with certain
grim adventures she could never forget, which remained all the more vivid
because she had never spoken of them to a living being.
And then, as she suddenly told herself, with a rather bitter feeling of
revolt, the life she was leading now was not calculated to make her
retain a look of youth. Last week, in a fit of temper, Rosamund had said
to her:--"I only wish you could see yourself! You look a regular
'govvy'!" She had laughed--the rather spiteful words passing her by--for
she had never cared either for learning or teaching. But now, as she
gazed critically in her mirror, she told herself that, yes, she really
did look rather like a nice governess--the sort of young woman a certain
type of smart lady would describe as her "treasure". Forty or fifty years
ago that was the sort of human being into which she would have turned
almost automatically when poverty had first knocked at the door of Old
Place.
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