"You fool! He owns all this"--she threw out her arms--"and ever so much besides."
"Owns all this? Is it Cuthbert Grahame you're talking about?"
"What do you know about Cuthbert Grahame?"
"Only that I happen to be living in one of his cottages--just over there--and a nice hole it is. But you can't expect much in the way of board and lodging for a pound a week, especially when you want some change left out of it. You're living in Cuthbert Grahame's house? Why, then--great Scot!--you must be the woman they're talking about who dropped from the skies." A change took place in the expression of his countenance which in its way was comical. "A pretty sort of she-devil you must be!"
"Now what are you talking about?"
"I know everything. Why, one of the servants up at Cuthbert Grahame's--Martha Blair--is the daughter of the people I'm lodging with. They talk of nothing else but you. You've been passing yourself off as Cuthbert Grahame's wife."
"Well, what of it?"
"What of it?--that's good! First theft, then bigamy!"
"You fool! he's dying."
"I don't see what difference that makes; from what I understand he's been dying for years."