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choice.
    At first, it was her mother she concentrated on, for her mother was the only person who had "passed over" whom Eustacia knew well or had any real desire to see again. But it was difficult, and not really very satisfying. Whole bodies were out of the question, requiring more ectoplasm than her body could produce at one time, so she concentrated either on hands (which were easiest) or on heads. Her mother's head was never quite right, and the more often she tried to produce it, the harder she found it to recall what her mother had really looked like. She was not limited to the dead, so she also created likenesses of Lydia and Mildred. But even the form of Mildred, whom she saw every day, was not really very like. The faces she made were just as clumsy and unfinished as they might have been if she had been working, untutored, in clay or stone. She knew who they were because she knew what she intended. She was not sure anyone else would have recognized them.
    Unsatisfying as it was, it was also the most amazingly tiring work. More exhausting than milking the cows or laundry day. After less than an hour working on another ghost of Lydia, sleep would catch her up, inescapable, and she would slumber heavily for several hours.
    Yet the energy spent was worth it. Not only did her efforts ward off Mr. Elphinstone, but they temporarily exhausted her supply of ectoplasm, winning sometimes a whole day of normal life and dry hands.
    If she would do that every evening, if she would spend an hour willing ectoplasmic shapes into existence before falling to sleep, Eustacia figured she could keep her peculiar condition secret and under control. But it wasn't so easy. Perhaps it was laziness -- she imagined Mildred would think so -- but there were many nights when she was simply too tired to do anything at the end of the day but put herself to bed. She enjoyed playing with the ectoplasm, making faces and hands, but it was hard work all the same. It took reserves of energy she did not always have, especially by the time she was ready for bed.
    Fortunately, she didn't have to share her bed with anyone. She didn't mind -- now that she knew the stuff could be washed off, or, if left, would soon dry to nothing -- the morning stickiness of the sheets or the mess on her body. Her hands were not the only source, if they had ever been. Like perspiration, the slime oozed from all the pores of her skin: from her legs, her feet, under her arms, her chest and back, even (and most horribly, because most visible) her face. Afraid that someone might notice, Eustacia took more care, forcing herself to stay awake past her usual bedtime, or waking early, or escaping to the privacy of her room on one pretense or another for long enough to do something with the excess ectoplasm.
    But despite her best intentions, her body leaked, and, one suppertime, Mildred noticed. When everyone had left the table, she stopped her sister with a look and said: "You must be more careful."
    "I wiped my hands -- and I did wash them before I came to table--"
    "It's not only your hands, now, is it? You've left a trail -- no, don't look, I cleaned it up. Father didn't notice, nor did Conrad, but what if they should? Next time, I think you'd best take supper in your room."
    "What? But why? How can I? Every night? Never eat with the family?"
    "Of course not every night. But while you're -- during your--" she nodded her head meaningfully, unable to pronounce the euphemism.
    "But it's not like that. I'm not--"
    "Your face ," Mildred muttered with a look of revulsion. She made small brushing gestures at her own forehead, and Eustacia became aware of the by-now familiar, chilly, tingling sensation from three different spots along her hairline. Both her handkerchiefs were already saturated, but she raised one, balled in her hand, to her head and wiped away the offensive trickles.
    "Go to your room," Mildred said. "Clean yourself. I'll tell the others you're feeling poorly--"
    "But I'm