Somehow he could only refer to Mrs Cannon as “her” and “she.”
“Oh no!” said Janet, in a tone to indicate that there was no possibility of Mrs Cannon being in Bursley.
He was relieved. Yes, he was glad. He felt that he could not have endured the sensation of her nearness, of her actually being in the next house. Her presence at the Orgreaves’ would have made the neighbourhood, the whole town, dangerous. It would have subjected him to the risk of meeting her suddenly at any corner. Nay, he would have been forced to go in cold blood to encounter her. And he knew that he could not have borne to look at her. The constraint of such an interview would have been torture too acute. Strange, that though he was absolutely innocent, though he had done nought but suffer, he should feel like a criminal, should have the criminal’s shifting downcast glance!
Three.
“Auntie!” cried the boy. “Can’t I go into this garden? There’s a swing there.”
“Oh no!” said Janet. “This isn’t our garden. We must go home. We only just called in. And big boys who won’t shake hands—”
“Yes, yes!” Edwin dreamily stopped her. “Let him go into the garden for a minute if he wants to. You can’t run off like that! Come along, my lord.”
He saw an opportunity of speaking to her out of the child’s hearing. Janet consented, perhaps divining his wish. The child turned and stared deliberately at Edwin, and then plunged forward, too eager to await guidance, towards the conquest of the garden.
Standing silent and awkward in the garden porch, they watched him violently agitating the swing, a contrivance erected by a good-natured Uncle Edwin for the diversion of Clara’s offspring.