She flushed deeply, and he was covered with confusion.

It seemed as if she did not like being discovered in her home circumstances.
"I thought it couldn't be your voice," she said.
But she might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.

She invited him out of the mausoleum of a parlour into the kitchen.
That was a little, darkish room too, but it was smothered in white lace.
The mother had seated herself again by the cupboard, and was drawing thread from a vast web of lace.

A clump of fluff and ravelled cotton was at her right hand, a heap of three-quarter-inch lace lay on her left, whilst in front of her was the mountain of lace web, piling the hearthrug.

Threads of curly cotton, pulled out from between the lengths of lace, strewed over the fender and the fireplace.