And then Grace told me.

Is there any other confession of my own pettiness that I can make to you." "Did you really care to whom I was writing ?" he asked slowly.
"Care?
I--it worried me.

Was it not a pitifully common impulse?
'Sisters under our skin,' you know--I and the maid who dresses me.

She would have snooped; I didn't; that's the only generic difference.

I wanted to know just the same.