Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. As he lay on his back, he fancied himself gradually slipping off the platform. She had animated dark blue-gray eyes under her fine eyebrows, and dark brown hair that rolled back simply and effectively from her broad low forehead. That it provided proof of the girl’s identity was one thing. “Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea. She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her. If I don't, you shall clap me in the Condemned Hold in his stead. ‘You have said you do not wish to marry me,’ she accused.
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