And having gained her cell in spite of him, she tried to slam the door in his face.
But he had had time to approach, and he set the handle of his whip between door and jamb, and stopped her.
“I’m not come for that, I tell you, you pretty spitfire,” he said; “I’ve come to hear if you have any complaints of your treatment here.”
“I have not!” she cried.
“Come, come,” he rejoined, checking her with a grin, “you must not answer the Visiting Justice in that tone. Say, ‘I have none, sir, I thank you kindly,’—that’s the proper form, my dear. You’ll know better another time. Or”—smiling more broadly as he read the angry refusal in her eyes—“we shall have to put you to beat hemp. And that were a pity. Those pretty hands would soon lose their softness, and those dainty wrists that are not much bigger than my thumbs would be sadly spoiled. But we won’t do that,” indulgently. “We are never hard on pretty girls as long as they behave themselves.”
She looked round wildly, but there was no escape. She could retreat no farther. The man filled the doorway; the room lay open to his insolent eyes, and he did not spare to look.
“Neat as a pin!” he said complacently. “Just as it should be. A place for everything, and everything in its place. I’ve nothing but praise for it. I never thought that it would ever be my lot to commend Miss Damer for the neatness of her chamber! But—good Lord!” with surprise, “what’s the matter with your wrist, my girl?”
“Nothing,” she said, the angry scarlet of her cheek turning a shade deeper.
“Nothing? Oh, but there is!” he returned peremptorily.
“Nothing!” she repeated fiercely. “Nothing! It’s nothing that matters!”