"Look at me!" he commanded, but with the definite order was mingled
some trace of cajolery.
She obeyed, quivering, her cheeks the colour of a tomato. In spite of
all preoccupations, she distinctly noticed--and not without a curious
tremor--that his features had taken on a boyish look. In the almost
senile face she could see ambushed the face of the youth that Thomas
Batchgrew had been perhaps half a century before.
"Ye're a fine wench," said he, with a note of careless but genuine
admiration. "I'll not deny it. Don't ye go and throw yerself away.
Keep out o' mischief."
Forgetting all but the last phrase, Rachel marched out of the room,
unspeakably humiliated, wounded beyond any expression of her own. The
cowardly, odious brute! The horrible ancient! What right had he?...
What had she done that was wrong, that would not bear the fullest
inquiry. The shopping was an absolute necessity. She was obliged to
come out. Mrs. Maldon was better, and quietly sleeping. Mrs. Tarns was
the most faithful and capable old person that was ever born. Hence she
was justified in leaving the invalid. Louis Fores had offered to go
with her. How could she refuse the offer? What reason could there be
for refusing it? As for the cinema, who could object to the cinema?
Certainly not Thomas Batchgrew! There was no hurry.
Pages:
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230