Mary's lips faltered.
"I bought 'em," she said.
"Did anybody see you come in here?"
"I don't know.—No, nobody did."
"Thank God for that!" Mrs. Denbigh pointed a long, gnarled finger at her daughter. She pointed it at the bedraggled hat, still bearing traces of a finery too pronounced for that small town. She pointed to the waist and to the skirt. "It's true, then!" she cried. "It's true, then! You've been a bad woman!"
In the doorway Mary swayed. She leaned heavily against the wall. She was too tired to lie.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Yes," her mother echoed; "yes—an' you own up to it! The whole town said it; your pop said it; they all told me yet—an' I stood up fer you; I showed 'em your letter; I says you was married; I kep' on believin' you'd write; I stuck to it—an' now you come here to shame me. You come here when you're worn out—when no one else'll have you—you come here, brazen, not carin' still, a bad woman—a bad woman—an' I guess you think I'll take you in!"
Her poor face writhed. Her dim eyes shot fire. Her withered breasts rose and fell in a spasm of indignation and wounded pride.
Mary, still leaning against the kitchen wall, put out her hands as if to ward away a blow.