Yet... if George had lied!
She sat up; sat up with both hands pressed to her ears to shut out a sudden voice clamouring through them—
“And why not? A son’s a son—curse you!—though he was your man!”
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A L’OUTRANCE.
Lizzie Pezzack had put Joey to bed and was smoothing his coverlet when she heard someone knocking. She passed out into the front room and opened to the visitor.
On the doorstep stood a lady in deep black—Honoria. Beyond the garden wall the lamps of her carriage blazed in the late twilight. The turf had muffled the sound of wheels, but now the jingle of shaken bits came loud through the open door.
“Ah!” said Lizzie, drawing her breath back through her teeth.
“I must speak to you, please. May I come in? I have a question...”
Lizzie turned her back, struck a match, and lit a candle. “What question?” she asked with her back turned, her eyes on the flame as it sank, warming the tallow, and grew bright again.
“It’s... it’s a question,” Honoria began weakly; then shut the door behind her and advanced into the room. “Turn round and look at me. Ah, you hate me, I know!”