"The old cry!" he screamed, in return.
"Yes, the old cry. You thought you weren't going to hear it again, eh! I want money!"
"I haven't any."
"Lies! You're rolling in it. You've enough to fill your grave. I want money."
"You're a pretty article to want money," said Old Flick, with a sneer. "Go and earn it."
"Don't say that again, Flick," said the girl, with a threatening flash in her eyes, "or I'll tear your liver out! Oh, I don't care for your looks! What do you think I've got in me to-day?"
"I don't know, and I don't care," he replied.
"I've got the devil in me!" she cried. "Mind how you let it loose. I feel it here--here!" and she drew her hand, with a nervous twitching of the fingers, across her forehead. "I try to deaden it to sleep with drink, but it won't rest. It dances in my brain, and laughs at me through my eyes! Oh! you're frightened at my talk, are you? What wonder! I'm frightened at it myself."
"You want rest, Milly," the old man said, with a sort of lame compassion in his voice.
"Rest!" she echoed, bitterly. "What rest can I expect or do I deserve? What did I come here for?" she asked herself, in a confused, wandering manner. "I came here to ask you for something, Flick. Not money alone; no, no! something else. I have it!" she steadied herself in an instant. "The letter!"