“And were you pleased to see her struck?” I asked: having my designs in encouraging his talk.

“I winked,” he answered: “I wink to see my father strike a dog or a horse, he does it so hard. Yet I was glad at first⁠—she deserved punishing for pushing me: but when papa was gone, she made me come to the window and showed me her cheek cut on the inside, against her teeth, and her mouth filling with blood; and then she gathered up the bits of the picture, and went and sat down with her face to the wall, and she has never spoken to me since: and I sometimes think she can’t speak for pain. I don’t like to think so; but she’s a naughty thing for crying continually; and she looks so pale and wild, I’m afraid of her.”

“And you can get the key if you choose?” I said.

“Yes, when I am upstairs,” he answered; “but I can’t walk upstairs now.”

“In what apartment is it?” I asked.