“No, no, Miss Margreet, only broken wittles, as would be thrown away.”
Liza stooped down, sobbing, and pulled the bundle out of the basket.
“I always said you’d be the ruin of me, mother,” she sobbed.
“No, no, my dear,” cried the woman; “Miss Margreet won’t be hard on us. Let me have it, miss, do please.”
“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.”