She looked at him gravely with her eyes now dry between their reddened lids. “Why, George,” she said, gently, “don’t you know that’s what they say? You must know that everybody in town thinks they’re going to be married very soon.”
George uttered an incoherent cry; and sections of him appeared to writhe. He was upon the verge of actual nausea.
“You know it!” Fanny cried, getting up. “You don’t think I’d have spoken of it to you unless I was sure you knew it?” Her voice was wholly genuine, as it had been throughout the wretched interview: Fanny’s sincerity was unquestionable. “George, I wouldn’t have told you, if you didn’t know. What other reason could you have for treating Eugene as you did, or for refusing to speak to them like that a while ago in the yard? Somebody must have told you?”
“Who told you?” he said.
“What?”
“Who told you there was talk? Where is this talk? Where does it come from? Who does it?”
“Why, I suppose pretty much everybody,” she said. “I know it must be pretty general.”
“Who said so?”
“What?”
George stepped close to her. “You say people don’t speak to a person of gossip about that person’s family. Well, how did you hear it, then? How did you get hold of it? Answer me!”