deep. It was very romantic, her head came just up to my shoulder.
You can hear it’s a long way from anywhere, I said.
When the time was up (I had to pull her) we went in through the kitchen and dining-room and into the hall and up the stairs to the bathroom.
There’s no lock on the door, I said, you can’t shut it even, I’ve nailed a block in, but I shall respect your every privacy providing you keep your word. I shall be here.
I had a chair on the landing outside.
I am now going to take your hand-cords off if you give me your word you will keep the gag on. Nod your head.
Well, she did, so I untied her hands. She rubbed them a bit, just to get at me, I suppose, then went in the bathroom.
All went off without trouble, I heard her have her bath, splashing etcetera, quite natural, but I got a shock when she came out. She hadn’t got the gag on. That was one shock. The other was the way she was changed with the new clothes and her hair washed, it hung all wet and loose on her shoulders. It seemed to make her softer, even younger; not that she was ever hard or ugly. I must have looked stupid, looking angry because of the gag, and then not being able to be it because she looked so lovely.
She spoke very quick.
“Look, it began to hurt horribly. I’ve given you my word. I give it to you again. You can put this back on if you like—here. But I would have screamed by now if I’d wanted to.”
She handed me the gag and there was something in her look, I couldn’t put it on again. I said, the hands will do. She had on her green tunic, but with one of the shirts I bought and I guessed she had on the new underclothes underneath.
I did up her hands behind her back.
I’m sorry I’m so suspicious, I said. It’s just that you’re all I’ve got that makes life worth living. It was the wrong moment to say a thing like that, I know, but having her standing there like that, it was too much.
I said, if you went, I think I’d do myself in.
“You need a doctor.”
I just made a noise.
“I’d like to help you.”
You think I’m mad because of what I’ve done. I’m not mad. It’s just, well, I’ve got no one else. There’s never been anyone but you I’ve ever wanted to know.
“That’s the worst kind of illness,” she said. She turned round then, all this was while I was tying. She looked down. “I feel sorry for you.”
Then she changed, she said, “What about washing? I’ve washed some things. Can I hang them out? Or is there a laundry?”
I said, I’ll dry them in the kitchen. You can’t send anything to the laundry.
“What now?”
And she looked round. There was something mischievous about her sometimes, you could see she was looking for trouble, in a nice way. Teasing like.
“Aren’t you going to show me your house?”
She had a real smile on, the first I ever saw; I couldn’t do anything but smile back.
It’s late, I said.
“How old is it?” She spoke as if she didn’t hear me.
There’s a stone says 1621 over the door.
“This is the wrong-coloured carpet. You ought to have rush matting or something. And those pictures—horrible!”
She moved along the landing to see them. Cunning.
They cost enough, I said.
“It’s not money you go by.”
I can’t say how strange it was, us standing there. Her making criticisms like a typical woman.
“Can I look in the rooms?”
I wasn’t myself, I couldn’t resist the pleasure, so I stood with her in the doorways and showed them, the one ready for Aunt Annie, and Mabel’s, if they ever came, and mine. Miranda looked very close round each one. Of course the curtains were drawn, and I watched right next to her to see she didn’t try any funny business.
I got a firm to do it all, I said, when we were at the door of mine.
“You’re very neat.”
She saw some old pictures of butterflies I bought in an antique shop. I chose them, I said.
“They’re the only decent things here.”
Well, there we were, she was making
You can hear it’s a long way from anywhere, I said.
When the time was up (I had to pull her) we went in through the kitchen and dining-room and into the hall and up the stairs to the bathroom.
There’s no lock on the door, I said, you can’t shut it even, I’ve nailed a block in, but I shall respect your every privacy providing you keep your word. I shall be here.
I had a chair on the landing outside.
I am now going to take your hand-cords off if you give me your word you will keep the gag on. Nod your head.
Well, she did, so I untied her hands. She rubbed them a bit, just to get at me, I suppose, then went in the bathroom.
All went off without trouble, I heard her have her bath, splashing etcetera, quite natural, but I got a shock when she came out. She hadn’t got the gag on. That was one shock. The other was the way she was changed with the new clothes and her hair washed, it hung all wet and loose on her shoulders. It seemed to make her softer, even younger; not that she was ever hard or ugly. I must have looked stupid, looking angry because of the gag, and then not being able to be it because she looked so lovely.
She spoke very quick.
“Look, it began to hurt horribly. I’ve given you my word. I give it to you again. You can put this back on if you like—here. But I would have screamed by now if I’d wanted to.”
She handed me the gag and there was something in her look, I couldn’t put it on again. I said, the hands will do. She had on her green tunic, but with one of the shirts I bought and I guessed she had on the new underclothes underneath.
I did up her hands behind her back.
I’m sorry I’m so suspicious, I said. It’s just that you’re all I’ve got that makes life worth living. It was the wrong moment to say a thing like that, I know, but having her standing there like that, it was too much.
I said, if you went, I think I’d do myself in.
“You need a doctor.”
I just made a noise.
“I’d like to help you.”
You think I’m mad because of what I’ve done. I’m not mad. It’s just, well, I’ve got no one else. There’s never been anyone but you I’ve ever wanted to know.
“That’s the worst kind of illness,” she said. She turned round then, all this was while I was tying. She looked down. “I feel sorry for you.”
Then she changed, she said, “What about washing? I’ve washed some things. Can I hang them out? Or is there a laundry?”
I said, I’ll dry them in the kitchen. You can’t send anything to the laundry.
“What now?”
And she looked round. There was something mischievous about her sometimes, you could see she was looking for trouble, in a nice way. Teasing like.
“Aren’t you going to show me your house?”
She had a real smile on, the first I ever saw; I couldn’t do anything but smile back.
It’s late, I said.
“How old is it?” She spoke as if she didn’t hear me.
There’s a stone says 1621 over the door.
“This is the wrong-coloured carpet. You ought to have rush matting or something. And those pictures—horrible!”
She moved along the landing to see them. Cunning.
They cost enough, I said.
“It’s not money you go by.”
I can’t say how strange it was, us standing there. Her making criticisms like a typical woman.
“Can I look in the rooms?”
I wasn’t myself, I couldn’t resist the pleasure, so I stood with her in the doorways and showed them, the one ready for Aunt Annie, and Mabel’s, if they ever came, and mine. Miranda looked very close round each one. Of course the curtains were drawn, and I watched right next to her to see she didn’t try any funny business.
I got a firm to do it all, I said, when we were at the door of mine.
“You’re very neat.”
She saw some old pictures of butterflies I bought in an antique shop. I chose them, I said.
“They’re the only decent things here.”
Well, there we were, she was making
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