Sarah talked a little, but not very much. She asked questions about
Mary's home and her parents, and Mary answered these interrogations in
monosyllabic gasps. It appeared that Mary had a kitten, and that this
kitten was a central fact of Mary's existence. The kitten was called
Alice.

"Alice is a silly name for a kitten. I shouldn't call a kitten Alice,"
said Sarah, and Mary started as though in some strange, sinister fashion
she were instantly aware that Alice's life and safety were threatened.

From that morning began a strange acquaintance that certainly could not
be called a friendship. There could be no question at all that Mary was
terrified of Sarah; there could also be no question that Mary was
Sarah's obedient slave. The cynical Hortense, prepared as she was for
anything strange and unexpected in Sarah's actions, was, nevertheless,
puzzled now.

One afternoon, wet and dismal, the two of them sitting in a little box
of a room in the little box of a house, Sarah huddled in a chair, her
eyes staring in front of her, Hortense sewing, her white, bony fingers
moving sharply like knives, the maid asked a question:

"What do you see--Sar-ah--in that infant?"

"What infant?" asked Sarah, without moving her eyes.

"That Mary with whom now you always are."

"We play games together," said Sarah.