Mrs. Judson stood motionless, towering upright like a pillar of marble. Her voice was concentrated and hoarse; she made no gestures, but her eyes absolutely burned with indignation.
“And you know this De Marke?”
“Yes, mother, I know him!”
“Have seen him since your husband’s death, perhaps?”
“Yes, mother, often!”
“Here in this house, no doubt, where the widow came to bury her griefs?”
Here the proud woman’s wrath blazed forth. Her hand was clenched; her foot was half lifted from the floor, as if to spurn the widow and child from her presence.
“Here, I say, here you may have received him, in a house consecrated to tears, under the roof which shelters your mother!” she continued, lifting her hoarse voice.
The young widow stood pale and firm before all this wrath; and the pretty child clung to her eagerly, following each motion of the haughty woman with his brave, bright eyes.
“It is true,” she said, “I have seen him here.”