"You've kept me a prisoner."
"Kept you a prisoner! I! Madam, you jest. Has not your foot had something to do with your confinement? Is it not holding you a prisoner still?"
"It won't do long, so don't you think it. I'll be out and about before the day's over, and when I am I'll make things hum. Is my husband dead?"
"Your husband?"
"My husband! Are you deaf?"
"No, madam, not yet. So far age has not robbed me of my hearing. But to whom do you refer when you speak of your husband?"
There was that in the fashion in which he asked the question which caused her to clench her fists, tighten her lips and descend to vulgarity--unfortunately an easy descent for her to make when her temper waxed warm.
"What are you playing at? Do you think you're clever, or that I'm an utter fool? You're wrong if you do, you may take it from me. Is my husband, Cuthbert Grahame, dead? I've not been able to get an answer out of that old harridan, but I'll get one out of you."
"Then is Cuthbert Grahame your husband?"
"Is he! Isn't he? Didn't he marry me the other night in front of you and that old woman?"