She exulted because she was in the very midst of her wondrous adventure and tingling with a thousand apprehensions.
After a long time the latch of the drawing-room door cracked warningly.
Hilda retired within the kitchen out of sight of the lobby.

She knew that the child in her would compel her to wait like a child until the visitor was gone, instead of issuing forth boldly like a young woman.
But to Florrie the young mistress with her stern dark mask and formidable eyebrows and air of superb disdain was as august as a goddess.

Florrie, moving backwards, had now got nearly to the scullery door with her wringing and splashing and wiping; and she had dirtied even her face.

As Hilda absently looked at her, she thought somehow of Mr.Cannon's white wristbands.

She saw the washing and the ironing of those wristbands, and a slatternly woman or two sighing and grumbling amid wreaths of steam, and a background of cinders and suds and sloppiness....