"Yes," answers Anne Fitch. "Alas!"
"When did he go?" asks Moll.
"An hour since," answers the other.
"Whither is he gone?"
"I am no witch."
"At least, you know which way he went."
"I have not stirred from here since I gave him his last meal."
Moll sank into the empty chair, and bowed her head in silence.
Anne Fitch, whose keen eyes had never strayed from Moll since she first entered the room, seeming as if they would penetrate to the most secret recesses of her heart, with that shrewd perception which is common to many whose bodily infirmity compels an extraordinary employment of their other faculties, rises from her settle in the chimney, and coming to the table, beside Moll, says:
"I am no witch, I say; yet I could tell you things would make you think I am."