She gave him a clout over the head that sobered him. Logan pounced on her like a tiger.
“You devil!” he said. “You she-devil! Don’t you see the poor boy’s ill?”
“What’s that to me?” she screamed, with her head wobbling backwards and forwards horribly as he shook her. “It’s n-nothing t-to m-me!”
She caught Logan by the wrist and sent him spinning, for she was nearly as strong as he.
“Go to Brighton!” she shouted. “I don’t care. I’ll be glad to be rid of you both. You won’t find me here when you come back, that’s all, you and your little hurdy-gurdy boy! You only need a monkey and an organ to make you complete. Why don’t you try it? You’d do better at that than out of pictures.”
Logan could not contain himself. His rage burst out of him in a howl like that of a wind in a chimney, a dismal, empty moan. He stood up, and the veins on his neck swelled and his mouth opened and shut foolishly, for he could find nothing to say.
“You slut, you squeezed-out dishclout, you sponge!” he roared at last. “Clear out, you drab! Clear out into the streets, you trull! Draggle your skirts in the mud, you filth, you octopus! Sell the carcase that you don’t know how to give, you marble!”
She flung up her hands and sank on to her knees, and let down her hair and moaned:—
“O God! O God! O God!”