"W'at yer mean?" she demanded. But she snatched the money. "Ah, you're a real swell, you are."
"Go home," he said. "Go home—Jenny."
"Jenny!" she exclaimed. "How'd yer know my name?" Then as if warned of the presence behind she turned and saw the policeman, shrank, and fled. The roundsman and Mather regarded each other.
"Did you know her, sir?" asked the man.
"Never saw her before," was the answer. "You don't read Rossetti, I suppose, officer. Here comes my car."
He stepped from the curb to go behind Judith's carriage; at the same moment the vehicle started with a jerk and went swiftly forward. For a little longer it was involved in the city traffic, then it turned into a quiet street and bowled onward quickly. Once more Judith leaned at the window, glad of the cold air. She was oppressed; to-night life seemed complicated, awful, even tragic.
[CHAPTER XXIII]
Plain Language