“A very queer fall,” I muttered.
The wound was several days old and not serious, but, owing to neglect, had got into a very bad condition.
“Ah, zat is better,” she exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, when I had thoroughly cleansed the cut. I was just preparing to bandage it up, when she stopped me.
“No, meestair; not zat! My ’usban’, ’e see zat, ’e know I come here, and zen ’e angry. Ze vashin’ and ze salve zey make me better!”
“But look here, my good woman,” I exclaimed, indignantly; “do you mean to say that your husband is such a brute that he objects to your having your wound dressed—a wound that you got in such a peculiar way, too?”
Her manner changed instantly; she drew herself haughtily up, and began buttoning up her dress.
“My ’usban’ ’e no brute; ’e verra nice man; ’e love’ me verra much.”
“Really!”
“Yes,” she asserted, “’e love me much, oh oui, je vous assure qu’il m’adore!” and she tossed her head and looked at me through the thick lashes of her half-closed eyes; “’e man, you know, ’e sometime jealous,” she continued, smiling, as if his jealousy were a feather in her cap.