Here she would find candy awaiting her, bits of ribbon, books. She thought she had hidden well from him. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. ‘Martha was my wet-nurse? But she is unmarried. ‘You are jealous!’ ‘Yes,’ he agreed simply.
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