It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. She was perfectly aware that the boy had gotten some sort of bug in his craw over her despite her sloppy, strange appearance. She blew on the hand cannon and grabbed her bag of gunpowder. The picture might easily apply to The Tigress: outwardly disreputable, but richly and comfortably appointed below. She swallowed hard. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt, between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and then closed and barred the door. Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. But she disapproved more and more of her own mental austerity.
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