She wet some absorbent cotton with alcohol and refreshed his face and neck. Guiltily, she felt very little for him, and yet she wondered what he would be like. There had been fusses and scenes dimly apprehended through half-open doors. He would pick a random member of the ever-shifting household for the sake of example. "Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance.
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