“I am not a—proper woman.”
D’Urberville’s face flushed.
“What a blasted shame! Miserable snobs! May their dirty souls be burnt to cinders!” he exclaimed in tones of ironic resentment. “That’s why you are going, is it? Turned out?”
“We are not turned out exactly; but as they said we should have to go soon, it was best to go now everybody was moving, because there are better chances.”
“Where are you going to?”
“Kingsbere. We have taken rooms there. Mother is so foolish about father’s people that she will go there.”
“But your mother’s family are not fit for lodgings, and in a little hole of a town like that. Now why not come to my garden-house at Trantridge? There are hardly any poultry now, since my mother’s death; but there’s the house, as you know it, and the garden. It can be whitewashed in a day, and your mother can live there quite comfortably; and I will put the children to a good school. Really I ought to do something for you!”
“But we have already taken the rooms at Kingsbere!” she declared. “And we can wait there—”
“Wait—what for? For that nice husband, no doubt. Now look here, Tess, I know what men are, and, bearing in mind the grounds of your separation, I am quite positive he will never make it up with you. Now, though I have been your enemy, I am your friend, even if you won’t believe it. Come to this cottage of mine. We’ll get up a regular colony of fowls, and your mother can attend to them excellently; and the children can go to school.”
Tess breathed more and more quickly, and at length she said—