‘Do you mean to tell me, then, Sophronia—’
Thus he begins after a long silence, when Sophronia flashes fiercely, and turns upon him.
‘Don’t put it upon me, sir. I ask you, do you mean to tell me?’
Mr Lammle falls silent again, and they walk as before. Mrs Lammle opens her nostrils and bites her under-lip; Mr Lammle takes his gingerous whiskers in his left hand, and, bringing them together, frowns furtively at his beloved, out of a thick gingerous bush.
‘Do I mean to say!’ Mrs Lammle after a time repeats, with indignation. ‘Putting it on me! The unmanly disingenuousness!’
Mr Lammle stops, releases his whiskers, and looks at her. ‘The what?’
Mrs Lammle haughtily replies, without stopping, and without looking back. ‘The meanness.’
He is at her side again in a pace or two, and he retorts, ‘That is not what you said. You said disingenuousness.’
‘What if I did?’
‘There is no “if” in the case. You did.’