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Burnett, Frances Hodgson, 1849-1924

"The Head of the House of Coombe"


"My word!" she breathlessly gave forth. "I've got you now! I've
got you now."
She so looked that to Robin she seemed--like the ugly man
downstairs--a sort of wicked wild beast, whose mere touch would
have been horror even if it did not hurt. And the child knew what
was coming. She felt herself dragged up from the floor and also
dragged between Andrew's knees, which felt bony and hard as iron.
There was no getting away from them. Andrews had seated herself
firmly on a chair.
Holding her between the iron knees, she put her large hand over
her mouth. It was a hand large enough to cover more than her mouth.
Only the panic-stricken eyes seemed to flare wide and lustrous
above it.
"YOU'LL scream!" she said, "YOU'LL hammer on the floor with your
heels! YOU'LL behave like a wildcat--you that's been like a kitten!
You've never done it before and you'll never do it again! If it
takes me three days, I'll make you remember!"
And then her hand dropped--and her jaw dropped, and she sat staring
with a furious, sick, white face at the open door--which she had
shut as she came in. The top floor had always been so safe. The
Nursery had been her own autocratic domain. There had been no
human creature to whom it would have occurred to interfere. That
was it. She had been actually SAFE.
Unheard in the midst of the struggle, the door had been opened
without a knock.


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