With the threat he had raised one of the cane chairs, and held it over her head.
Throughout their oft-repeated quarrels, it had never before come to this—the crisis of a threatened blow.
She was neither large nor strong—only beautiful—while the bully was both. But she did not believe he intended to strike; and she felt that to quail would be to acknowledge herself conquered. Even to fail replying to the defiance.
She did so, with additional acerbity.
“Say what again? Remember Maynard? I needn’t say it; you’re not likely to forget him!”
The words had scarce passed from her lips before she regretted them. At least she had reason: for with a crash, the chair came down upon her head, and she was struck prostrate upon the floor!