My life at Grandfather Warren's was one kind of penance and my life in Miss Black's school another.

Both differed from our home-life.
My filaments found no nourishment, creeping between the two; but the fibers of youth are strong, and they do not perish.

Grandfather Warren's house reminded me of the casket which imprisoned the Genii.
I had let loose a Presence I had no power over--the embodiment of its gloom, its sternness, and its silence.
With feeling comes observation; after that, one reasons.

I began to observe.

Aunt Mercy was not the Aunt Merce I had known at home.