"I am ruined," thought Mark Inglefield, and hoped that Blooming Bess would not recognize him. There were chances in his favor. It was night when they met, and he had taken the precaution to change his clothes and wrap himself in an ulster. To these chances he was compelled to trust; and perhaps he could keep himself out of the girl's sight.
"What do you know about it?" asked Mr. Parkinson, in great excitement.
"Oh, I don't mind telling," said the girl. "Here, you! Just let go of me, will you?"
She released herself from the woman's grasp.
"Do you want the lot," she asked of Mr. Parkinson, "from beginning to end?"
"I must know everything," he replied, "everything."
"You must, must you? Well, that's for me to say, not you. I could tell you a lot of lies if I wanted to."
He made a threatening motion towards her, but was held back by his mates. "You'll only make things worse," they said.
"A precious sight worse," said Blooming Bess, with a reckless laugh. "Oh, let him get at me if he likes! Who cares? I don't. But I'll tell him what he wants, never fear. She's a respectable one, she is! When I went to the bad, passed me by as if I was so much dirt. Wouldn't look at me--wouldn't speak to me; holding her frock like this, for fear I should touch it. And now what is she, I'd like to know? Better than me--or worse?"
Mr. Parkinson groaned.