"Well, you've been and kept yourself pretty secret," the old man pursued.
"I suppose your husband's proud? He's proud, ain't he? He's of a family,
I'll be bound. Is he of a family? How did he like your dressing up like
a mill'ner gal to come down in the City and see me?"
Dahlia's guile was not ready. "He didn't mind," she said.
"He didn't mind, didn't he? He don't mind your cutting of your hair so?- -didn't mind that?"
She shook her head. "No."
Anthony was down upon her like a hawk.
"Why, he's abroad!"
"Yes; I mean, he did not see me."
With which, in a minute, she was out of his grasp; but her heart beat thick, her lips were dry, and her thoughts were in disorder.
"Then, he don't know you've been and got shaved, and a poll like a turnip-head of a thief? That's something for him to learn, is it?"
The picture of her beauty gone, seared her eyes like heated brass. She caught Anthony's arm with one firm hand to hold him silent, and with the other hand covered her sight and let the fit of weeping pass.