"To tell ye thet I air a goin' to make an hones' woman of ye. I's a goin' to marry ye. I knows I's a pappy, but the brat'll die, and he'll be forgot like yer daddy will!"
Tess instantly froze into a white, tense little form. She did not follow the fisherman's glance as he motioned her to take up the cloth.
"I's a tellin' yer mammy to wipe yer old eye," she said pettishly. "I ain't got no notion of bein' an hones' woman ... I hates yer like I hates Ezry Longman."
She wheeled to go out, but the man stayed her with a grunt.
"I's to be sick for a long time," exclaimed he, "and mammy will step to the grave most any day ... I wants pert fingers to put the plasters on my cuts."
Here he groaned and fought for the cloth, the salt tears scorching the rents in the skin as they rolled hot from the red eye and soaked into the plasters. The squatter girl mechanically wiped away the tears, turning again.
"Myry air pert," she said, halting in the door. "She air more than that—her fingers air lovin' ones. These," and she held up her two brown hands, "would be hurtin' ye, cause I hates ye so."
Tessibel and Myra walked away from Ben's hut in silence, up the ragged rocks to the Longman shanty.