art work painting

at times defied her authority and laughed it to scorn;
she dressed well, and had a presence and port calculated to set off
handsome attire.
Sitting on a low stool, a few yards from her arm-chair, I
examined her figure; I perused her features. In my hand I held the
tract containing the sudden death of the Liar, to which narrative my
attention had been pointed as to an appropriate warning. What had just
passed; what Mrs. Reed had said concerning me to Mr. Brocklehurst; the
whole tenor of their conversation, was recent,
mind; I had felt every word as acutely as I had heard it plainly,
and a passion of resentment fomented now within me.
Mrs. Reed looked up from her work; her eye settled on mine, her
fingers at the same time suspended their nimble movements.