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it and gave it to her. Lola was about to
use itbut the sight of its gaily printed motif of cowgirls and lariats caused her to
give out a gentle hooting sound on a rising notethe kind of noise children make to
imitate ghosts. Downstairs the doorbell rangand moments laterjust discernible
the rapid tick of high heels on the tiled floor of the hallway. It would be Robbieand
Cecilia was going to the door herself. Worried that Lola’s crying could be heard
downstairsBriony got to her feet again and pushed the bedroom door closed. Her
cousin’s distress produced in her a state of restlessnessan agitation that was close
to joy. She went back to the bed and put her arm round Lola who raised her hands to
her face and began to cry. That a girl so brittle and domineering should be brought
this low by a couple of nine-year-old boys seemed wondrous to Brionyand it gave
her a sense of her own power. It was what lay behind this near-joyful feeling.
Perhaps she was not as weak as she always assumed; finallyyou had to measure
yourself by other people—there really was nothing else. Every now and thenquite
unintentionallysomeone taught you something about yourself. At a loss for words
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