“Can’t I then?” sneered the girl. “It’s Mr. Martin, that’s who her beau is!”
The woman uttered an exclamation and stepped outside.
“Ye’re dreamin’,” she said. “He’s got somethin’ else to think of than foolin’.”
“Ye can see ’em for yerself,” scoffed Mary Ann, pointing to the road where the heads of the man and the girl were to be seen slowly passing along above the privet hedge.
“Well, ’e ain’t much of a beau, then,” sneered the woman, “It’s disgustin’. A widower wi’ a child to keep.”
Mary Ann was hurrying on, but she turned back.
“What!” she shrieked. “Who says so?”
"I says so," answered the woman. “Why, this is his brat as I’ve got ’ere, so I ought to know it. ’E and his slip of a wife lived in my court up in London, and when the mother died he guv me the child to mind. But Lord, what ’e pays ain’t worth the bother.”
“I never!” exclaimed Mary Ann impressively. “Do Jenny know it?”
“No,” answered the woman, “and, look ’ere, don’t ye go saying nothink about it neither. It’s little enough, but sich as it is I can’t afford to lose it, and he swore he’d take the brat away if ever I said i’ the place as it were his’n.”