“Clean or unclean, I would rather not have her in my room. There she is trying to drink out of my jug. Get away, you little beast!”
Sally caught up her dog, and marched out of the room, slamming the door after her.
“At last I have got rid of her,” thought Maggie, and she rolled and pinned up the last plait of her black hair, but she did not go down to breakfast until the wheels grated on the gravel and the carriage was heard moving away. Then she begged Grace to tell her what her father had said.
“He said his children were persecuting him, that he had not had an hour's peace since their poor mother died.”
“Fudge! Mother knew how to keep him in order. Do you remember when she threw the carving knife?”
“Sally, for shame! How can you speak of poor mother so?”
“You know it is true, Hypocrisy. There is no harm in coming to the point.”
“It was very nearly coming to the point,” said Maggie, giggling.
“Well, what else did he say?”
“He said he didn't know what course he should adopt, but that things couldn't go on as they were; he thought he should write to Aunts Mary and Hester, and just as he was going out of the door he said that he'd prefer to sell the whole place up than continue living here and be the laughing-stock of the neighbourhood.”