The large, gaping flaws in the construction of the stories–mad wives in the attic, strange apparitions in Belgium–are a representation of the life she could not face; these gothic subterfuges represent the mind at a...

…[M]y inner self moved; my spirit shook its always-fettered wings half loose. I had a sudden feeling as if I, who never yet truly lived, were at last about to taste life.

Spring came late. For the children, shut in the dark, cold parsonage, adjusting to Aunt and getting over the death that brought her, the winter had seemed endless. But now the rough moor was flecked...