She had known for a long, long time that both her aunts would stop her "dreaming" if they could.

Did she tell them about her friend, about the kind of pictures of which the fountain reminded her, about the vivid, lively memories that the tree with the pink flowers--the almond tree--in the corner of the gardens--you could just see it from the nursery window--called to her mind; she knew that she would be punished--put in the corner, or even sent to bed.

She did not think these things out consecutively in her mind, but she knew that the dark room downstairs, the dark passages, the stillness and silence of it all frightened her, and that it was always out of these things that her aunts rose.
At night when she lay in bed with Rosie clasped tightly to her, she whispered endlessly about the gardens, the fountain, the barrel organs, the dogs, the other children in the Square--she had names of her own for all these things--and him, who belonged, of course, to the world outside....

Then her whisper would sink, and she would warn Rose about the rooms downstairs, the dining-room with the black chairs, the soft carpet, and the stuffed birds in glass cases--for these things, too, she had names.

Here was the hand of death and destruction, the land of crooked stairs, sudden dark doors, mysterious bells and drippings of water--out of all this her aunts came....
Unfortunately it was just at this moment that Miss Emily Braid decided that it was time to take her niece in hand.