“She can't read any other way,” said Euphemia, drowsily.
“Yell af ter yell res oun ded as he wil dly spr rang—”
“I can't stand that, and I won't,” said I. “Why don't she go into the kitchen?—the dining-room's no place for her.”
“She must not sit there,” said Euphemia. “There's a window-pane out. Can't you cover up your head?”
“I shall not be able to breathe if I do; but I suppose that's no matter,” I replied.
The reading continued.
“Ha, ha! Lord Mar mont thun der ed thou too shalt suf fer all that this poor—”
I sprang out of bed.
Euphemia thought I was going for my pistol, and she gave one bound and stuck her head out of the door.
“Pomona, fly!” she cried.