"You know that?" he exclaims.
She laughs contemptuously.
"I know that; I know much more than that. You did not show me the letter left by Mr. Darcy for you at his death, but you did not destroy it. That letter I have read. He states his reasons for disinheriting you plainly enough, does he not? And for my part, all I have to say is, served you right."
She rises, gathers her papers together, binds them up, and without looking at him, sweeps from the room.
"Joanna!" she calls, "look after Laurie and baby. I am going down town."
She dresses herself hastily, and in her cheap hat and muslin dress, manages somehow to look stylish and distinguished still. She takes an omnibus, rides to Wall street, and enters Mr. Gilbert's office.
Mr. Gilbert receives her with cordial kindness, takes the papers, glances over them, pronounces them well done, and gives her two crisp five-dollar greenbacks. The color comes into her pale cheeks.
"You pay me so much more than the copying is worth," she falters. "Oh, Mr. Gilbert, good, kind, faithful friend, what would become of me and my babies but for you?"
He stops her with a quick gesture.
"Hush! not one cent more than the work is justly worth. And all is gone then, Mrs. Thorndyke?"