On a high chair behind a raised counter the stipendiary’s substitute regarded her malevolently over his glasses. “No I’m not, John. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. For a moment her heart seemed to stop beating. She wished she could steal his smiles and keep them in a box, they had always been so precious. Back, that you may be close together. It would have been better had he succeeded in murdering her, she thought.
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