“And my husband—do you know him? But of course you do, else you would not be here.”
“I know something of him.”
The miserable woman shuddered, and pressed her hands to her throbbing temples.
“My cup of sorrow is full to overflowing,” said she with extreme bitterness. “Exposure, disgrace, ignominy are before me. Oh! why have you come hither? and in such a garb too! Oh! but this is indeed terrible! Does the doctor know who and what you are?”
The gipsy hung down his head.
“I am answered,” she cried. “For mercy’s sake tell me what you want. If it be money, I will give you what you need, provided you do not come here again.”
“I shall not trouble you,” he exclaimed; “and I will not accept any money from you, seeing that I have forfeited all claim upon you; but I should like to have half an hour or so’s conversation with you, not on account of myself, but on your account. Is this man kind to you?”
“What man?”
“Doctor Bourne.”
She approached the speaker, and whispered into his ear the monosyllable, “No.”