'I don't know about pocket money; it generally goes into my mouth.'
'In sweets?'
'In bread and butter. Well, sir, Mr. Gasset works the stones up into seals or brooches, or paper weights, or just as so many specimens; and these the visitors buy. And if you be going——'
'You are——' corrected Mr. Holwood.
Winefred made a slight movement with her arm, as though turning a grindstone.
'If you are going to Seaton, sir, you'll find Mr. Gasset's shop on the right-hand side of the street, about a hundred paces above the Red Lion.'
He nodded. He was without his hat; now he stooped laboriously—for he was tightly strapped, and wore stays—and picked it up.
'And so—she turns the handle of the grindstone.'
'What—my mother? Yes, sir. But our cottage has fallen down, and now we have not got the grindstone where we are.'
'Where is that?'