Dear Fuz,
Perhaps you hadn't better come and see me again—I expect you'll think I'm mad, but it isn't any good to have rows because I've got to live here any old way.
I liked seeing you, dear Fuz, and I'm sorry he made a fool of himself and I'll write some day about young Frank. No more now from your little friend,
Jenny.
Who cares?
She gave the letter to Thomas, who took it down to the One and All. It was Jenny's inherent breeding that made her send it. All her pride bade her insist on Castleton's company, begged her to defy Trewhella, and, notwithstanding scenes the most outrageous, to establish her own will. But there was Fuz to be considered. It would not be fair to implicate him in the miserable muddle which she had created for herself. He belonged to another life where farmers did not grovel in the mud before Heaven's wrath, where husbands did not swear foully at wives, asking forgiveness from above before the filthy echo had died away. Fuz was better out of it. Yet she wished she could see him again. There were many questions not yet asked.
Trewhella was foxy when next he discussed Castleton with Jenny.
"He wasn't too careful about calling of 'ee Mrs. Trewhella," he began.
"Don't be silly. He always knew me as Jenny in the old days."
"Oh, I do hate to hear 'ee tell of they old days. I do hate every day before I took 'ee for my own."