““She was not like Mary’s daughter at all; she was more like Susan his wife. He looked at her, searching her face, wondering if she was happy (how could she be happy with that woman in her mother’s place), wondering what sort of thoughts were hidden behind that quiet masklike look, and it seemed to him that she was too old for her years, her mouth too firm, her expression too reserved. He remembered that even as a child she had worn a quaint air of maturity, of responsibility—perhaps that was what Mary had meant. “You’re””
