“Wouldn’t you, now?” said the slut, and settled herself down for a tease. She was a born chatterer, as glib at retort as she was garrulous, and the bump of reverence had been wholly denied her. She looked very pretty, nevertheless, in her evening frock of flowered lutestring, with her bright hair tumbling over her bright cheeks, and dressed at each temple with a knot of pink ribbon. “Well, there’s no accounting for tastes. If I’d hurt my arm, I should either forget the bruise or forget my work. They don’t pull together.”
“I haven’t hurt my arm.”
“Not?”
“It was bitten by a dog.”
“Sakes, now! What made him do it?”
“What makes any dog bite? An evil disposition, I suppose.”
“You weren’t taking his bone away from him, by chance?”
“Not I. He’s welcome to a whole skeleton of bones for me.”
“All except the spare-rib, maybe.”
His lordship, from his place apart, went “Ha-ha!”—and immediately looked furiously solemn. My lady, beyond a slight flushing of the cheek, showed no consciousness of the interruption. Moll turned in her chair, leaning her arms on the back and her chin on her crossed hands.