“Will you be quite open with me for the future, then?” she said.
“Open!” I hissed back. “I’ll go to Mrs Blunt, and tell everything, I will—everything; and won’t spare myself a bit, so that you may be punished, you wicked, good-for-nothing, bad-behaved, deceitful and treacherous thing, you!”
“Take breath now, my darling,” she said, tauntingly.
“Breath,” I said—“I wish I had none. I wish I was dead, I do.” And I could not help a bit of a sob coming.
“Poor Achille!” she whispered. “What would he do then?”
“Oh, don’t talk to me—don’t,” I said, bending down my burning face over a book, not a word in which could I see.
“It did tease you, then, did it?” said Clara, laughing.
“Tease me, you heartless thing you,” I said. “Hold your tongue, do! I’ll never forgive you—never, Clara!”
“Less talking there,” said Miss Furness—the Griffin.
“Ugh! you nasty old claw-puss,” said Clara, in an undertone.