They both saw there was no way for her to put on the toupee again.
She smiled oddly, with a half-whimsical, wholly feminine bit of malice.

Her eyes seemed dancing.
"I'm afraid I can't obey you, sir," she proffered.

"You can see for yourself, it can't be done." A dull, angry flush crept over the Master's rather pale face, and lost itself in the roots of his thick, black hair.

Perfectly well he saw that he was being cornered in an untenable position of half-command, half-intimacy.

Without apparently exercising any wiles, this woman was none the less involving him in bonds like those the Lilliputians threw round sleeping Gulliver.
Anger welled up in his proud heart that anyone--much less a woman--should thus lower his dignity.