Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. "We'll see that, you yelping hounds!" rejoined Jonathan, glaring fiercely at them. “That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. Moreoever, it had cost her a whipping and several days’ imprisonment in her cell on bread and water. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. No, not one little bit. They were very nice about it, in memory of your father.
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