Faintly, very faintly, I heard a voice:
"No."
If it be possible to scream in a whisper, the woman did it.
"You will! you will! Oh! oh! oh! There's the cursed mule spirit of your mother in you. She'd never tell us the name of the man that was the ruin of 'er, blast 'er."
"Don't speak of my mother, you vile woman!"
The voice of the virago contracted to an intensity of venom I have never heard the equal of.
"Vile woman! Vile woman! You, you to call me a vile woman, me that's been three times jined in holy wedlock.... Oh, you bastard brat! You whelp of sin! You misbegotten scum! Oh, I'll fix you for that, if I've got to swing for it."
Her scalding words were capped with an oath too foul to repeat, and once more came the horrible pounding, like a head striking the woodwork. Unable to bear it any longer, I rapped sharply on the door.
Silence, a long, panting silence; then the sound of a falling body; then the door opened a little and the twitching face of Madam appeared.
"Is there somebody sick?" I asked. "I'm sorry to trouble you, but I was thinking I heard groans and—I might be able to do something."