Clare waited. Agatha protested redly, her fear of ridicule outweighing her fear of Clare. "Miss Hartill, I simply couldn't. Before everybody—all this tosh—I mean all this stuff I wrote. It's a written essay. I couldn't make it sound right aloud." Clare waited. "It's not good enough, Miss Hartill. Honestly! And we never have. You've never made us. I couldn't."[44] [44] Clare waited. Agatha twisted her hands uneasily. The schoolgirl shyness that is physical misery was upon her. "I—don't want to, Miss Hartill. I can't. It's not fair to have one's stuff—to be laughed at—to be——" she subsided just in time. The class sat, breathless, all eyes on Clare. And Clare waited; waited till defiance faded to unease—unease to helplessness, till the girl, overborne by the utter silence, gave way, and dropping her eyes to her exercise, fluttering its pages in angry embarrassment, finally, with a giggle of pure nervousness, embarked on the opening sentence. Clare cut through the clustering adjectives. "Stand up, please." Resistance was over. She rose sullenly. She had been proud of her essay, had worked at it sincerely, knew its periods by heart. But her pleasure in it was destroyed, as completely, she realised, as she had destroyed that of little Louise. More—for Louise had found a champion. That, she recognised jealously. Unjust! Her essay was no worse, read soberly—yet she was forced to render it ridiculous. She read a couple of pages in hurried jerks, stumbling over the illegibilities of her own handwriting, baulked by Clare's interpolations. She heard her own voice, high-pitched and out of control, perverting her meaning, felt the laden sentences breaking up into chaos on her lips. In her flurry she pronounced familiar words amiss, Clare's calm voice carefully correcting. Once she heard a chuckle. Two pages ... three ... only that ... she
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