Margaret slid off the bed and came over to stand beside her mother. Her mother had known all the time that she was sitting on the quilt, and she had said nothing, because she wanted peace in the house when the Bishop arrived. Margaret would have liked to squeal with annoyance. Her mother had made a fool of her again. And Lily, who was standing rigid while her mother gave a final combing to the ends of her hair — Lily was watching her sideways to see if she would say something. She would have liked to push Lily, but more than that she wanted to say something to show her mother she was not a baby anymore. They treated her like a baby, letting her do wrong things and not saying anything, because they were afraid she’d make a scene. She wasn’t going to make a scene with the Bishop coming. They didn’t trust her any more than they would trust a tiny baby. Margaret wished she could say something clever that would put both of them in their place, but she could think of nothing. No words came to her, and if they had come there would have been no room for them, because her head was full of tears that rushed forward, searching for her eyes. She was going to disgrace herself. She shut her eyes tightly, but the tears burst out and she felt them beginning to pour down her face. She sobbed loudly. The first sob came out angrily, because she had tried to hold it back, and it left her helpless to resist the smaller sobs that drove up from her chest and straight into her brain, so that each time she opened her eyes to look at her mother she had to shut her eyes quickly again until the sob released her and left her longing not to make any more noise. The sound of the ugly sobs made her ashamed and made her feel dirty and sleepy. But she was helpless, and able only to stare at her mother with terrified eyes. She was adrift, tossing up and down on the awful tiny-baby fury that always seemed to be catching up with her, even out on the street in front of people. And the Bishop was coming. Margaret opened her mouth and screamed.