“None,” said Jenny. “At least I haven’t heard of any.”
“Then she ought to be ashamed of herself for thinking of such a thing.”
“I quite agree with you, Nelly,” said Jenny.
“If I were a man,” said Mrs. Quiggin, “and my wife turned me out of doors——”
“Did I say that, Nelly? Well not exactly that—no, not turned him out of doors exactly, Nelly.”
“It’s all one, Jenny. If a woman behaves so that her husband can not live with her what is she doing but turning him out of doors?”
“But, Nelly!” cried Jenny, rising suddenly. “What about Captain Davy?”
Then there was a blank silence. Mrs. Quiggin had been borne along on the torrent of her indignation, brooking no objection, and sweeping down every obstacle, until brought up sharply by Jenny’s question—like a river that flows fastest and makes most noise where the bowlders in its course are biggest, but breaks itself at last against the brant sides of some impassable rock. She drew her breath in one silent spasm, turned from feverish red to deadly pale, quivered about the mouth, twitched about the eyelids, rose stiffly on her half-rigid limbs, and then fell on Jenny with loud and hot reproaches.
“How dare you, Jenny Crow?” she cried.
“Dare what, my dear?” said Jenny.