"I've a good mind not to speak to you again, Sir!" cried Winifred, with difficulty repressing a tear of vexation; "you've acted unfairly. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Lucy could feel blood welling underneath a bump half swelling and already half-healing on her scalp. ‘What in Hades d’ye mean, thanks to me? Want to blame anyone, blame that rapscallion who calls himself your father. It's a pity you wouldn't give me the prescription instead of the medicine, so I could have it filled nearer home.
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