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Updated: June 14, 2025
I was a mere child when it all happened, yet I remember it but too well, and I can recall how pleased I was when my father's stepmother, Mrs. Montressor she not liking to be called grandmother, seeing she was but turned of fifty and a handsome woman still wrote to my mother that she must send little Beatrice up to Montressor Place for the Christmas holidays.
Therefore I took heart of grace when I thought of my dark face and spindling shape, hoping that when I should be grown up I might be counted not unworthy of my race. The Place was an old-fashioned, mysterious house, such as I delighted in, and Mrs. Montressor was ever kind to me, albeit a little stern, for she was a proud woman and cared but little for children, having none of her own.
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