I tried to stare at her. But her face kept advancing and retreating.
“Stand still, woman,” I cried. “But his name’s Maidstone.”
“So’s mine,” she said, “when I’m not acting.”
I snatched at her wrist, but it proved to be my own.
“Do you mean to say,” I asked, “that you’re Mary Maidstone?”
“Polly Maidstone,” she said. “Don’t you remember? The same Polly that made a face at you.”
I sank to the floor for a moment, but rose on my hands again.
“Throw her out,” I yelled. “Throw that woman out.”
She looked at Ezekiel.
“Hadn’t we better take him home?” she asked.