She held it out to Cyril.
'Hit my hand hard,' she said; 'I must show mother some reason for my eyes being like they are.

Harder,' she cried as Cyril gently tapped her with the iron handle.

And Cyril, agitated and trembling, nerved himself to hit harder, and hit very much harder than he intended.
Anthea screamed.
'Oh, Panther, I didn't mean to hurt, really,' cried Cyril, clattering the poker back into the fender.
'It's--all--right,' said Anthea breathlessly, clasping the hurt hand with the one that wasn't hurt; 'it's--getting--red.' It was--a round red and blue bump was rising on the back of it.

'Now, Robert,' she said, trying to breathe more evenly, 'you go out--oh, I don't know where--on to the dustbin--anywhere--and I shall tell mother you and the Lamb are out.' Anthea was now ready to deceive her mother for as long as ever she could.

Deceit is very wrong, we know, but it seemed to Anthea that it was her plain duty to keep her mother from being frightened about the Lamb as long as possible.