I still shake, a little. ''I can''t imagine,'' I say, pulling myself away from her hands, ''that you mean me any kind of good, since you persist in keeping me here, when I so clearly wish to leave.''
She tilts her head. ''Hear the grammar in that, Mr Ibbs?'' she says. The man says he does. She strokes me again. ''Sit down, my darling. Look at this chair: got from a very grand place, it might be waiting for you. Won''t you take off your cloak, and your bonnet? You shall swelter, we keep a very warm kitchen. Won''t you slip off your gloves?—Well, you know best.''
I have drawn in my hands. Richard catches the woman''s eye. ''Miss Lilly,'' he says quietly, ''is rather particular about the fingers. Was made to wear gloves, from an early age''—he lets his voice drop still further, and mouths the last few words in an exaggerated way— ''by her uncle.''
The woman looks sage.
''Your uncle,'' she says. ''Now, I know all about him. Made you look at a lot of filthy French books. And did he touch you, dear,
where he oughtn''t to have? Never mind it now. Never mind it, here. Better your own uncle than a stranger, I always say.—Oh, now ain''t that a shame?''
I have sat, to disguise the trembling of my legs; but have pushed her from me. My chair is close to the fire and she is right, it is hot, it is terribly hot, my cheek is burning; but I must not move, I must think. The boy still picks at the lock. ''French books,'' he says, with a snigger. The red-haired girl has the fingers of the baby''s hands in her mouth and is sucking on them, idly. The man has come nearer. The woman is still at my side. The light of the fire picks out her chin, her cheek, an eye, a lip. The lip is smooth. She wets it.‖‖