He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. She loved to be told to do things. And what did she do? Not only did she cut his hand in her rage, but she refused to let him help her, and then she ran away from him. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view.
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