all; to pull the wings from flies, to tie kettles to the tails of
agitated puppies, to throw stones at cats, did not, in the least, amuse
her. She had once put a cat in the fire, but only because she had seen
it play with a terrified mouse. That had affronted her sense of justice.
But she was gravely and quite dispassionately interested in the terror
of Mary Kitson. In later life a bull fight was to appear to her a
tiresome affair, but the domination of one human being over another,
absorbing. She had, too, at the very earliest age, that conviction that
it was pleasant to combat all sentiment, all appeals to be "good," all
soft emotions of pity, anything that could suggest that Right was of
more power than Might.

It was as though she said, "You may think that even now you will get me.
I tell you I'm a rebel from the beginning; you'll never catch me showing
affection or sympathy. If you do you may do your worst."

Beyond all things, her anxiety was that, suddenly, in spite of herself,
she would do something "soft," some weak kindness. Her power over Mary
Kitson reassured her.

The fascination of this power very soon became to her an overwhelming
interest. Playing with Mary Kitson's mind was as absorbing to Sarah, as
chess to an older enthusiast; her discoveries promised her a life full
of entertainment, if, with her fellow-mortals, she was able, so easily,
"to do things," what a time she would always have. She discovered, very
soon, that Mary Kitson was, by nature, truthful and obedient, that she
had a great fear of God, and that she loved her parents. Here was fine
material to work upon. She began by insisting on little lies.

"Say our clocks were all wrong, and you couldn't know what the time