She was, therefore, very much alone, and felt all her injuries twice as deeply as she had felt them before. Hamlet began to be an obsession with her. She had always had a habit of talking to herself, and now she could be heard telling herself that if it were not for the dog, Jeremy would always be with her, would play with her, walk with her, laugh with her as he used to do. She acquired now an awkward habit of gazing at him with passionate intensity. He would raise his eyes and find the great moon-faced spectacles fixed upon him with a beseeching, reproachful glare in the light of them. This would irritate him intensely. He would say: “You'll know me next time, Mary.” She would blush crimson and then, with trembling mouth, answer: “I wasn't looking.” “Yes, you were.” “No, I wasn't.” “Of course, you were--staring as though I were an Indian or Chinaman. If my face is dirty, say so.” “It isn't dirty.” “Well, then--” “You're always so cross.” “I'm not cross--only you're so silly--” “You usen't always to say I was silly. Now you always do--every minute.” “So you are.” Then as he saw the tears coming he would get up and go away. He didn't mean to be unkind to her; he was fond of her--but he hated scenes. “Mary's always howling about something now,” he confided to Helen. “Is she?” Helen answered with indifference. “Mary's such a baby.” So Mary began to attribute everything to the dog. It seemed to her then that she met the animal everywhere. Cow Farm was a rambling building, with dark, uneven stairs, low-ceilinged rooms, queer, odd corners, and sudden unexpected doors. It seemed to Mary as though in this place there were two Hamlets. When, in the evening she went to her room, hurrying through the passages for fear of what she might see, stumbling over the uneven boards, sniffling the mice and straw under the smell of her tallow candle, suddenly out of nowhere at all Hamlet would appear scurrying along, like the White Rabbit, intent on serious business.