“An’ he loves you, no doubt,” continued the old woman with a laugh. “At least he’s probably told you so.”
“No, he hasn’t.”
“Oh-ho! He hasn’t, eh?”
“No.”
“An’ never will,” shouted the harpy triumphantly. “He ain’t marryin’ no Websters—don’t you think it for one minute. He’s just makin’ a fool of you. That’s his idea of revenge—your Christian gentleman!”
She rubbed her dank hands together.
“I don’t believe it.”
“You wouldn’t be likely to,” returned Ellen sharply. “I didn’t expect it. No girl is ever 229 willin’ to believe her lover’s a scoundrel. But mark my words—Martin Howe is playin’ with you—playin’—just the way a cat plays with a mouse. He’s aimin’ to get you into his clutches an’ ruin you—wait an’ see if he ain’t. Oh, he’s a deep one, this gentleman you seem to think so much of!”
“I’ll not believe it,” repeated Lucy hotly.
“You’d marry him, I s’pose,” Ellen hissed.