Dinner went off gaily, and, although my guardian seemed to follow rather than originate subjects, I knew that he wrenched the weakest part of our dispositions out of us.  For myself, I found that I was expressing my tendency to lavish expenditure, and to patronize Herbert, and to boast of my great prospects, before I quite knew that I had opened my lips.  It was so with all of us, but with no one more than Drummle:  the development of whose inclination to gird in a grudging and suspicious way at the rest, was screwed out of him before the fish was taken off.

It was not then, but when we had got to the cheese, that our conversation turned upon our rowing feats, and that Drummle was rallied for coming up behind of a night in that slow amphibious way of his.  Drummle upon this, informed our host that he much preferred our room to our company, and that as to skill he was more than our master, and that as to strength he could scatter us like chaff.  By some invisible agency, my guardian wound him up to a pitch little short of ferocity about this trifle; and he fell to baring and spanning his arm to show how muscular it was, and we all fell to baring and spanning our arms in a ridiculous manner.

Now, the housekeeper was at that time clearing the table; my guardian, taking no heed of her, but with the side of his face turned from her, was leaning back in his chair biting the side of his forefinger and showing an interest in Drummle, that, to me, was quite inexplicable.  Suddenly, he clapped his large hand on the housekeeper’s, like a trap, as she stretched it across the table.  So suddenly and smartly did he do this, that we all stopped in our foolish contention.

“If you talk of strength,” said Mr. Jaggers, “I’ll show you a wrist.  Molly, let them see your wrist.”

Her entrapped hand was on the table, but she had already put her other hand behind her waist.  “Master,” she said, in a low voice, with her eyes attentively and entreatingly fixed upon him.  “Don’t.”

“I’ll show you a wrist,” repeated Mr. Jaggers, with an immovable determination to show it.  “Molly, let them see your wrist.”

“Master,” she again murmured.  “Please!”

“Molly,” said Mr. Jaggers, not looking at her, but obstinately looking at the opposite side of the room, “let them see both your wrists.  Show them.  Come!”

He took his hand from hers, and turned that wrist up on the table.  She brought her other hand from behind her, and held the two out side by side.  The last wrist was much disfigured — deeply scarred and scarred across and across.  When she held her hands out, she took her eyes from Mr. Jaggers, and turned them watchfully on every one of the rest of us in succession.

“There’s power here,” said Mr. Jaggers, coolly tracing out the sinews with his forefinger.  “Very few men have the power of wrist that this woman has.  It’s remarkable what mere force of grip there is in these hands.  I have had occasion to notice many hands; but I never saw stronger in that respect, man’s or woman’s, than these.”