“Go away!” cried Aunt Marguerite fiercely.
“Pray, pray do, miss,” cried the woman imploringly.
“Go away, I say!” cried Aunt Marguerite, “and if you set foot on these premises again, you shall leave with the police. Go!”
Poor Liza stood inside the door, sobbing, with the bundle of good things neatly pinned up in her hand, while Aunt Marguerite stood pointing imperiously with her closed fan, as if it were a sceptre, till Poll Perrow, with her basket swung once more upon her back, disappeared out of the gate.
“Now, madam,” said Aunt Marguerite, “the moment that young person in the drawing-room has gone, you shall receive your dismissal, and in disgrace.”
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty.
A Meeting in Pain.
George Vine sat in his easy-chair in front of the fireplace, gazing at the cut paper ornaments and willow shavings, and seeing in them the career of his son, and the dismal scene in the churchyard, with the rain falling and making little pearls on the black coffin cloth.