Art Painting

Uncle Reed say to you, if he were alive?' was my
scarcely voluntary demand. I say scarcely voluntary, for it seemed
as if my tongue pronounced words, without my will consenting to
their utterance: something spoke out of me over which I had no
control.
'What?' said Mrs. Reed under her breath: her usually cold
composed grey eye became troubled with a look like fear; she took
her hand from my arm, and gazed at me as if she really did not know
whether I were child or fiend. I was now in for it.
'My Uncle Reed is in heaven, and can see all you do and think;
and so can papa and mama: they know how you shut me up all day long,
and how you wish me dead.'