“Look, dear,” she said presently, “you can put the ten on the Jack. Maybe later. “I am going to ignore it. ‘She’s an eviltempered little termagant, yes, but there’s no malice aforethought. We are expecting a visit from Sir John Ferringhall at any moment. She did not realize that she was offering criticisms. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars.
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