She made a movement with her emaciated hand. John sat down on the chair
Louisa gave up to him, and bent down over the bed.
'If yer woan't do—what Muster Drew says, John—whatever wull yer do with it?'
She spoke slowly, but clearly. John scratched his head. His complexion had evidently been very fair. It was still fresh and pink, and the full cheek hung a little over the jaw. The mouth was shrewd, but its expression was oddly contradicted by the eyes, which had on the whole a childish, weak look.
'I think yer must leave it to me, 'Liza,' he said at last. 'I'll do all for the best.'
'No—yer'll not, John,' said the dying voice. 'You'd a done a many stupid things—if I 'adn't stopped yer. An I'm a-goin. You'll never leave it wi Bessie?'
'An who 'ud yer 'ave me leave it with? Ain't Bessie my own sister's child?'
An emaciated hand stole out of the bedclothes and fastened feebly on his arm.
'If yer do, John, yer'll repent it. Yer never were a good one at judgin folk. Yer doan't consider nothin—an I'm a-goin. Leave it with Saunders, John.'
There was a pause.
Then John said, with an obstinate look, 'Saunders 'as never been a friend o' mine, since 'ee did me out o' that bit o' business with Missus Moulsey. An I don't mean to go makin friends with him again.'