“Hold your tongue!” cried the doctor fiercely.
“But you did, Tom; and I shall never forget her look that day I met her in the street—it went like a knife to my heart.”
Mrs Hardon sat crying silently for some time, while the doctor savagely rustled his paper, but all the while reading not a word, for his lips moved, and he talked fiercely to himself.
“There!” cried Mrs Hardon at last, “I won’t take on, for it seems of no use, and whether she or I live or die, don’t seem to matter to you, Tom. And now I want to know about Octavius’s property. How much is it? and are you certain that there was no will?”
“I’ve told you there was none ten times over,” said the doctor; “and now wait till the funeral’s over, for I won’t be bothered.”
“But, Tom,” said Mrs Hardon, “I want to know what is the extent—what it is really worth, and how much you owe.”
“Never mind,” said the doctor.
“But I have a right to know,” cried Mrs Hardon.
“There! I don’t know myself,” said the doctor.
“Then perhaps your solicitors do,” said Mrs Hardon; “and I shall, as I have often threatened, ask them.”