“O-o-oh,” said ‘the Duke,’ approaching a face which appeared to have been recently buttered. “And how does he know?”
“I don’t think he does,” said Susan, seeking to disengage herself. “Please let me go.”
“And why was she ‘vairy naize’?” continued ‘the Duke,’ detaining her.
“You’d better ask him,” said Susan, trying to pass it off. “He seems to know. And now let me go, please. I’ve got this letter to write.”
‘His Grace’ skipped to a doorway and spread out his arms.
“Block the other one, Saddle-soap: and we’ll give her a run,” he cried, and, with that, he switched off the lights.
Then curtain rings rasped, and, except for the rosiness of a dying fire, the room was black.
Susan stood paralysed.
She was going to be kissed, of course. That went without saying. She wondered dully whether she was going to be scratched. Labotte. . . . Perhaps he would only pinch her.
With a shock she realized that she had better move. To stay where she was would be fatal. If she could change her position . . .