“Her bills? Her debts?”
Anne did not expressly answer, but old Coney caught up the truth, and nodded his head in wrath. He as good as knew it before.
“Well, child, I suppose you may reckon, at the worst, on a clear two hundred a-year, and you can live on that. Not keep house, perhaps; and it would be very lonely for you also. You will have to take up your abode with some pleasant family: many a one would be glad to have you.”
“I should like to go back to France,” sighed Anne, recalling the misery that England had brought her: first in her new stepmother, then in Mr. Angerstyne, and now in her father’s death. “I have many dear friends in France who will take every care of me.”
“Well, I don’t know,” cried old Coney, with a blank look. “France may be very well for some people; but I’d almost as lieve go to the gallows as there. Don’t you like England?”
“I should like it well, if I—if I could be happy in it,” she answered, turning red again at the thought of him who had marred her happiness. “But, you see, I have no ties here.”
“You must make ties, my lass.”
“How much of the income ought I to pay over yearly to Mrs. Lewis, do you think?” she questioned. “Half of it?”
“Half! No!” burst forth old Coney, coughing down a strong word which had nearly slipped out. “You will give her none. None. A pretty idea of justice you must have, Anne Lewis.”
“But it would be fair to give it her,” argued Anne. “My father married her.”