"Yes, he would. You ask him.... I haven't time to tell you all about it now, Mary, I must eat and run. Come downstairs."
Not having succeeded in breaking it gently, Carlin took the opposite tack and spoke with curt military command. In silence Mary turned to the glass, fastened her dress and smoothed her hair carefully. In no circumstances would she be sloppy. She descended the stairs after Carlin, they sat down at the table in the dining-room, and the awkward Swedish girl brought in the dinner. Mary silently filled Carlin's plate. He began to speak, but just then the Judge arrived, winded from a rapid walk and looking worried. He greeted Mary rather apologetically, as he tucked his napkin under his beard.
"Laurence tell you?" he panted. "Now don't get mad, Mary—seems as if we'd have to do it. Explain to you later."
Mary lifted her chin haughtily as she gave the Judge his plate.
"I'm not 'mad'—but I certainly don't understand why you and Laurence want to defend a brute like that man. When I think of poor Sarah Barclay, working and slaving away, and those poor little children—I can't see how you can do it!"
She looked indignantly at her husband, who was eating in haste and left the Judge to reply.
"Now, Mary, you don't understand—don't know his side of it—"
"His side of it—a drunken worthless brute—Judge, I wonder at you, defending murder!"
"No, not murder—no, I don't defend murder, certainly not—"