The lad looked alarmed. She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. "I should think so," responded the lethargic turnkey, with a yawn. He was a shy boy outwardly but she knew him better in his thoughts, in which perhaps she had already taken upon the role of lover. He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby. “You’ll get me to allude to it, but you’d have to torture me to admit it. ‘Ah, now I may see what damage Gérard has done to me,’ she muttered, crossing to the table and putting her hand to the sore place at her neck.
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