[He sits, producing his snuff-box; she sits, upon the basket, facing him, and opens the packet of letters.]
Rose.
[Reading a letter.] "To reassure you as to my well-being, I cause this to be posted in London by a friend——"
Sir William.
[Pointing a finger at her again, accusingly.] A friend!
Rose.
[Looking up, with simple pride.] He would never call me that. [Reading.] "I am in good bodily health, and as contented as a man can be who has lost the woman he loves, and will love till his dying day—" Ah——!
Sir William.
Read no more! Return them to me! give them to me, ma'am! [Rising, she restores the letters, meekly. He peers up into her face.] What's come to ye? You are not so much of a vixen as you were.