“Oh, that; I ha’n’t got it, child—I have lost it, have left it at home.”
“Lost it,” said I; “left it at home—what do you mean? Come, let me have it.”
“I ha’n’t got it, child.”
“I believe you have got it under your cloak.”
“Don’t tell any one, dear; don’t—don’t,” and the apple-woman burst into tears.
“What’s the matter with you?” said I, staring at her.
“You want to take my book from me?”
“Not I, I care nothing about it; keep it, if you like, only tell me what’s the matter?”
“Why, all about that book.”
“The book?”