"There are some picture-books in the drawing-room." He led the way.

The drawing-room lay at the back of the house--an apartment even more profoundly depressing than the one she had left.
Its one important piece of furniture was a circular table of rosewood standing in the centre of the carpet under a brass gaselier, of which the burnish had perished in patches; and in the centre of the table stood a round-topped glass case containing a stuffed kestrel, with a stuffed lark prostrate under its talons and bleeding vermilion wax.
Around this ornament were disposed, as the Doctor had promised, a number of albums and illustrated books, one of which he chose and placed it in her hands, at the same time bringing forward one of a suite of rosewood chairs ranged with their backs to the walls.

He motioned her to be seated.
"You shall be told as soon as ever your aunt arrives." "Yes, sir," said Tilda feebly.

For the moment all the fight had gone out of her.
He stood eyeing her, pulling at his bony finger-joints, and seemed on the point of putting some further question, but turned abruptly and left the room.
As the door closed--thank Heaven, at least, he did not bolt this one also!--a dry sob escaped the child.

Why had she told that string of falsehoods?
She was trapped now--imprisoned in this horrible house, not to be released until this fictitious aunt arrived, which, of course, would be never.