Inspecting the damage, the boy is disapproving: “The sheer weight of literature you’ve got here, well, that will put a terrible strain on a house, Mrs Touchet. Terrible strain.” When Eliza readily agrees, the boy feels a flicker of anxiety. “Was she laughing at him? Perhaps ‘literature’ was the wrong word. Perhaps he had pronounced it wrong.” He says no more and kneels to measure the size of the hole.