Gladys was used to being sworn at. She was not in the least intimidated.
“Do you s'pose I was goin' to have M'ria talked about?” she said. “You can cuss all you want to.”
They got into the train. Wollaston sat by himself, Gladys and Maria together. Maria was no longer weeping, but she looked terrified beyond measure, and desperate. A horrible imagination of evil was over her. She never glanced at Wollaston. She thought that she wished there would be an accident on the train and he might be killed. She hated him more than he hated her.
They were just in time for a boat at Cortlandt Street. When they reached the Jersey City side Wollaston went straight to the information bureau, and then returned to Gladys and Maria, seated on a bench in the waiting-room.
“Well, there is a train,” he said, curtly.
“'Ain't it been took off?” asked Gladys.
“No, but we've got to wait an hour and a half.” Then he bent down and whispered in Gladys's ear, “I wish to God you'd been dead before you got us into this, Gladys Mann!”
“My father said it had been took off,” said Gladys. “You sure there is one?”
“Of course I'm sure!”
“My!” said Gladys.