The expression that passed over Mrs. Hackworth's face as she heard this 
statement suggested less than perfect comprehension. But before she could 
explain to her host the error of his ways, they were interrupted by the sound 
of a shrill and bitter conflict making its way down the hall toward them. The 
door swung open halfway, and Colin Finkle-McGraw appeared. His face was still 
ruddy from the wind on the moor, and it bore a forced grin that was not 
terribly distant from a smirk; though his brow knit up periodically as 
Elizabeth emitted an especially piercing shriek of anger. In one hand he held a 
copy of the Young Lady's Illustrated Primer. Behind him, Mrs. 
Finkle-McGraw could be seen holding Elizabeth by the wrist in a grip that 
recalled the blacksmith's tongs holding a dangerously hot ingot ready for 
smiting; and the radiant glow of the little girl's face perfected that analogy. 
She had bent down so that her face was level with Elizabeth's and was hissing 
something to her in a low and reproaching tone.