Howards End · Chapter 23 (2/2)

It is the starved imagination, not the well-nourished, that is afraid. Margaret flung open the door to the stairs. A noise as of drums seemed to deafen her. A woman, an old woman, was descending, with figure erect, with face impassive, with lips that parted and said dryly:

“Oh! Well, I took you for Ruth Wilcox.”

Margaret stammered: “I⁠—Mrs. Wilcox⁠—I?”

“In fancy, of course⁠—in fancy. You had her way of walking. Good day.” And the old woman passed out into the rain.