“From my own room. The wind wuthered so I couldn’t go to sleep and I heard someone crying and wanted to find out who it was. What were you crying for?”
“Because I couldn’t go to sleep either and my head ached. Tell me your name again.”
“Mary Lennox. Did no one ever tell you I had come to live here?”
He was still fingering the fold of her wrapper, but he began to look a little more as if he believed in her reality.
“No,” he answered. “They daren’t.”
“Why?” asked Mary.
“Because I should have been afraid you would see me. I won’t let people see me and talk me over.”
“Why?” Mary asked again, feeling more mystified every moment.
“Because I am like this always, ill and having to lie down. My father won’t let people talk me over either. The servants are not allowed to speak about me. If I live I may be a hunchback, but I shan’t live. My father hates to think I may be like him.”
“Oh, what a queer house this is!” Mary said. “What a queer house! Everything is a kind of secret. Rooms are locked up and gardens are locked up—and you! Have you been locked up?”
“No. I stay in this room because I don’t want to be moved out of it. It tires me too much.”
“Does your father come and see you?” Mary ventured.
“Sometimes. Generally when I am asleep. He doesn’t want to see me.”