Without turning, Ann passed out.
Bob followed his wife, crestfallen enough. . . .
There was a moment’s silence.
Then—
“Dear me,” said Aunt Harriet, trembling with rage and mortification. “Might be a craowned queen. ‘Take me away—aout of the ’aouse—naow . . .’ ”
She laughed hysterically.
“Woddid I say?” cried Mr. Allen, smearing the blood from his lip. “Dirt. That’s wot we are—dirt. Dirt for ’er to shake orf ’er gilded feet. Wot if we ’ave——”
“Yes, I notice you didn’t say that when she was ’ere,” snapped Aunt Harriet. “Very quiet you was. Anyone might ’ve thought you was frightened.”
“Frightened?” screamed Mr. Allen. “Gimme my ’at. I’ll show yer whether I’m frightened.”
With a filthy oath, he flung Uncle Tom aside, clapped his hat upon his head and lunged to the door. . . .