Anne had been at the Manor five days, and she had got used to Jerrold's
mother's caresses. All but one. Every now and then Mrs. Fielding's hand
would stray to the back of Anne's neck, where the short curls, black as
her frock, sprang out in a thick bunch. The fingers stirred among the
roots of Anne's hair, stroking, stroking, lifting the bunch and letting
it fall again. And whenever they did this Anne jerked her head away and
held it stiffly out of their reach.

She remembered how her mother's fingers, slender and silk-skinned and
loving, had done just that, and how their touch went thrilling through
the back of her neck, how it made her heart beat. Mrs. Fielding's
fingers didn't thrill you, they were blunt and fumbling. Anne thought:
"She's no business to touch me like that. No business to think she can
do what mother did."

She was always doing it, always trying to be a mother to her. Her father
had told her she was going to try. And Anne wouldn't let her. She would
not let her.

"Why do you move your head away, darling?"

Anne didn't answer.

"You used to love it. You used to come bending your funny little neck
and turning first one ear and than the other. Like a little cat. And now
you won't let me touch you."

"No. No. Not--like that."

"Yes. Yes. Like this. You don't remember."