At first each day which passed by for Mary Lennox was exactly like the others. Every morning
she awoke in her tapestried room and found Martha kneeling upon the hearth building her fi re;
every morning she ate her breakfast in the nursery which had nothing amusing in it; and after each
breakfast she gazed out of the window across to the huge moor which seemed to spread out on all
sides and climb up to the sky, and after she had stared for a while she realized that if she did not go
out she would have to stay in and do nothing—and so she went out.
She did not know that this was the best thing she could
have done, and she did not know that, when she began to
walk quickly or even run along the paths and down the
avenue, she was stirring her slow blood and making herself
stronger by fighting with the wind which swept down from
the moor. She ran only to make herself warm, and she hated
the wind which rushed at her face and roared and held her
back as if it were some giant she could not see. But the big
breaths of rough fresh air blown over the heather filled her
lungs with something which was good for her whole thin body
and whipped some red color into her cheeks and brightened
her dull eyes when she did not know anything about it.