'A letter, please, 'm,' she said, handing it to me.
'For me,' snarled Madame, snatching it.
I had seen my uncle's hand, and the Feltram post-mark.
Madame broke the seal, and read. It seemed but a word, for she turned it about after the first momentary glance, and examined the interior of the envelope, and then returned to the line she had already read.
She folded the letter again, drawing her nails in a sharp pinch along the creases, as she stared in a blank, hesitating way at me.
'You are stupid little ingrate, I am employ by Monsieur Ruthyn, and of course I am faithful to my employer. I do not want to talk to you. There, you may read that.'
She jerked the letter before me on the table. It contained but these words:—
Bartram-Haugh:
'30th January, 1845.