Anny sat down on the upturned rum keg, after first displacing the cat, who spat at her viciously.
Nan snatched a leather thong from the wall and lashed at the cat savagely, whereupon it slunk into a corner and lay down on a heap of onions, keeping one baleful eye fixed on his mistress’s visitor.
Nan sat down on a three-legged stool, the only other article in the room save for a huge iron bowl which hung on chains over the now empty grate, and several bunches of dried herbs hanging from the roof, and looked at the girl critically.
Anny’s face was very white and drawn, and she looked about her with a hunted expression in her wild green eyes. She had evidently been crying as she came along, for there were tear-marks on her white cheeks.
Nan said nothing, but sat looking at her, her strong, rugged face absolutely expressionless.
“I’ve got to marry Black’erchief Dick, Nan,” Anny said at last. “What will I do?”
Nan’s eyes flickered.
“Got to? Who says Anny Farran’s got to do aught she don’t want to?”
“Pet Salt said——”
“What!” Nan’s face blazed with fury. “That blue-livered, mange-struck ronyon! Truth, lass, you’re mad to think on her! The louse-ridden, thieving, man-stealing, spirit-sodden devil,” she muttered to herself.