She did not whip him, but stood him in front of her and began to reason with him and explain the wickedness of an untruth.

By-and-by she broke off in the midst of a sentence, appalled by the shrillness of her own voice.
From argument she had passed to furious scolding.

And the little fellow quailed before her, his contrition beaten down under the storm of words that whistled about his ears without meaning, his small faculties disabled before this spectacle of wrath.

Her fingers were closing and unclosing.

They wanted a riding-switch; they wanted to grip this small body they had served and fondled, and to cut out-- what?
The lie?
Honoria hated a lie.