“It is too late,” she answered in a low tone, “I cannot help it now.”
The magistrate leant forward. What a fool the girl was! If she went to Appleby he would see no more of her, save for an hour or two when she was brought up again before being committed. Whereas, if she spoke and they made her a witness, she might be lodged somewhere in the neighbourhood under surveillance. And she was so handsome and so young—the little fool!—he would not be sorry to see more of her.
“I give you a last chance,” he said.
“I give you a last chance,” he said.
She shook her head.
The magistrate shrugged his shoulders.
“Then make the committal out!” he said. “There’s enough to justify it.” It was some satisfaction to think that locked up with half a dozen sluts at Appleby she would soon be sorry for herself. “Make it out!” he repeated.
If the hysterics did not come now he was very much mistaken if they did not come later, when the gaol doors were shut on her. She was evidently of respectable condition; a curate’s daughter, perhaps, figged out by the man who had deceived her, or a lady’s lady, spoiled by her mistress, and taught ideas above her station. On such, the gaol, with its company and its hardships, fell severely. It would soon, he fancied, bring her to her senses.