Before Uncle Tom could focus this perversion sufficiently to discern the lie upon which a distasteful knowledge of his first-born told him it was depending—
“A nurl’s daughter?” said Mr. Allen, glaring at Ann.
“Oh, that’s all over,” said Aunt Harriet nervously. “She’s one of us now. After all, burf’s an acciden’.”
“Oh, she’s one of us, of course,” said May. She laughed spitefully. “I’m sure it’s a privilege—the way she shares our food an’ gentlemen friends.” Her voice began to quiver. “An’ I’m sure she’ld ’ve brought ’er Rolls-Royce coopy down—if she’d ’appened to think of it.”
Mr. Allen’s forehead and cheeks approached the colour of his nose. He began to breathe stertorously.
“Rolls-Royce?” he said hoarsely. He pointed a shaking finger. Instinctively Ann recoiled. “She ’as a Rolls-Royce? An’ I’ve been breakin’ bread at the same table wiv one ooze fathers ’as graoun’ the pore to ’eap up riches?” He threw himself forward. “Where’s yer Rolls-Royce come from? Aout of the pennies earned by toilin’ slaves. Aout of——”
“ ’Ere, shut yer face,” said Bob, rising. “Wot d’you know about it? Jus’ ’cause she’s a lady——”
Mr. Allen started to his feet.
“Wot do I know?” he repeated, with blazing eyes. “I know the terruth. That’s wot I know. I say ’er wealth ’as bin stole aout o’ the maouths of starvin’ baibes. The widder an’ the orphin ’as bin robbed to——”
“An’ I say you’re a liar,” roared Bob.