The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. "Shpeak up, vill you?" cried Abraham, rapping his knuckles against the hatch. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. My dress, my person will be minutely described. What was his problem, she thought to herself. “One has to be so careful of one’s friends and acquaintances,” he remarked, by way of transition.
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