Do you understand?’ ‘Aye, sir. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. "How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls. He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her.
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