“Send me away?” cried the pariah. “I’ll come when I please, and I’ll go when I please. I’m as good as she.” Mr. Santley stepped forward, and placed his hand on her arm.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were far away.”
“So I were; but I’ve come back. Well?”
“Remember what I told you. I will not have my parish disgraced any longer by your conduct. I have warned you repeatedly before. Where are you staying?”
“Down by the river-side, master. I’ve joined the gipsies, d’ye see.”
“Always an outcast,” said Santley, with, a certain gloomy pity. “Will nothing reform you?”
“No, master,” answered the girl, grinning. “I’m a bad lot.”
“I’m afraid you are.”
“But mind this,” she continued, with some vehemence, “there’s others, fine ladies too, as bad as me. Though I like a chap, and ain’t afraid to own it, and though I gets my living anyhow, I’m no worse than my betters, master. You’ve no cause to bully me, so don’t try it on, master. I can speak when I like, and I can hold my tongue when I like. Gi’ me a guinea, and I’ll hold my tongue.”
She held out her brown hand, leering up into his face.