"Yes, dear: what is it?"
"Where have you been?"
"Why, to Johnson's Court, as you know."
"Conspiring against me, eh?" He pushed his face close to hers: his reeking breath sickened her: but she smiled on, expecting him to strike.
"Come here!"—though she was close already. "Stand up. I'll teach you to gossip about me. You and your gentry, my fine madam. I'll teach you—I'll teach you!"
He struck now, blow after blow. She turned her quivering shoulders to it, shielding the unborn child.
He beat her to her knees. Still she curved her back, holding her arms stiffly before her, leaving her head and neck exposed. Would the next blow kill her? She waited.
The table went over with a crash, the light with it. He must have fallen across it: for, an instant later, she heard the thud of his head against the floor.
It seemed to her that she crouched there for an endless while, waiting for him to stir. He lay close beside her foot.
Her heel touched him as she rose. She groped for the tinder-box, found the candle, lit it, held it over him.