"Yes."

"Well, why did you do it, then?"

"Don't know."

"Don't say 'don't know' like that. You must have had some reason. Don't
look at the doll like that. Put the doll down." But this Angelina would
not do. She clung to Rose with a ferocious tenacity. I do not think that
one must blame Miss Emily for her exasperation. That doll had had a
large place in her mind for many weeks. It were as though she, Miss
Emily Braid, had been personally, before the world, defied by a rag
doll. Her temper, whose control had never been her strongest quality, at
the vision of the dirty, obstinate child before her, at the thought of
the dancing, mocking gardens behind her, flamed into sudden, trembling
rage.

She stepped forward, snatched Rose from Angelina's arms, crossed the
room and had pushed the doll, with a fierce, energetic action, as though
there was no possible time to be lost, into the fire. She snatched the
poker, and with trembling hands pressed the doll down. There was a great
flare of flame; Rose lifted one stolid arm to the gods for vengeance,
then a stout leg in a last writhing agony. Only then, when it was all
concluded, did Aunt Emily hear behind her the little half-strangled cry
which made her turn. The child was standing, motionless, with so old, so
desperate a gaze of despair that it was something indecent for any human
being to watch.