“The more I see of you, the more my first impression is reinforced,” he grumbled. “Too sickly, too slow, too pampered . . . You’re not cut out for the place I’m taking you to. If you follow me there, you won’t last through winter. Just you wait and see.” Ophelia held the look he was boring into her. A look of iron. A look of defiance. Her great-uncle’s words resounded in her memory and she heard herself replying to him: “You don’t know me, sir.”
