"Yes," said Quin. He stood with his hand on the handle of the door after Sam had returned to the kitchen.
"My God," said George again. He went into the room.
When Ned had gone in he failed to recognise Jenny, and thought she was a white woman. She was nicely dressed, and now her hair was done very neatly. Sam had taught her how to do it. When she stood up, in surprise at the unexpected entrance of Ned, it was obvious even to his troubled eyes that she was near to becoming a mother. She gasped when she saw him.
"Oh, Mr. Ned," she cried. He looked dreadful: his clothes were disordered, ragged; his grizzled beard and hair unkempt and long. He looked sixty, though he was no more than fifty, and his eyes were bloodshot.
"Who are you?" asked Ned sharply.
"I'm Jenny," she murmured, looking abashed and troubled.
And then George came in. When Jenny saw him she cried out—
"What's the mattah, Tchorch?"
There was matter enough to make her man pallid. But he was master of himself, for he had to look after the poor wretch who now fell into a chair by the fire and sat huddled up in terror.
"I'll tell you by and by," said George. "Give him a drink, Jenny girl, and give me one. I've got to go out."