“She’s a woman,” ventured Manila, helplessly.
“Well?”
“And she’s married to my father—but she don’t like him.”
“I know.” Phœbe nodded sadly. “They sit at the table, and don’t speak, and don’t kiss each other good-night.”
“But she spends all Paw’s money,” went on Manila. “And she hits me. Look!” She drew up a loose sleeve. There on the thin arm was a dark welt.
Phœbe gasped.
Manila, pleased with the effect she had produced, warmed to further details. “She hits me with a piece of harness. It’s half of a tug. And once she hurt me so bad that I went to Court.”
“But doesn’t your daddy help you?” demanded Phœbe.
“Nope. Just boozes.” She lowered the sleeve resignedly.
Phœbe gave a quick look around. Then, “It’s almost like a picture I once saw:” she said; “Her Terrible Sin. There was a woman in it who got whipped by a man who was tipsy.”