I stood too long.

My grandmother came in--or was it Itke, the housemaid ?--and found me with the stolen morsel.
I saw that I was fairly caught.

How could I hope to escape my captor, when I was obliged to turn on my stomach in order to descend safely, thus presenting my jailer with the most tempting opportunity for immediate chastisement?
I took in the situation before my grandmother had found her voice for horror.

Did I rub my eyes with my knuckles and whimper?
I wish I could report that I was thus instantly struck with a sense of my guilt.

I was impressed only with the absolute certainty of my impending doom, and I promptly seized on a measure of compensation.
While my captor--I really think it was a grandmother--rehearsed her entire vocabulary of reproach, from a distance sufficient to enable her to hurl her voice at me with the best effect, I stuffed the lump of sugar into my mouth and munched it as fast as I could.