"How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. “Please search everywhere,” she said. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. To a woman she might have confided; but to this man, kindly as he was, it was unthinkable. She started forward. It was a hoax, it was the only thing possible, until she heard Cathy say, “Let me hold those for you. ‘But if you must fight so furiously, I don’t see how I can promise not to do it again.
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