“Does he!” cried Clara, almost excited, also triumphant, hearing her own suspicions verified.
“He oughter be ashamed of hisself!” rumbled McGibney.
Clara looked up, and there was a slow heavy frown, instead of the slow heavy smile.
“There’s worse than him!” she said sharply.
“I’ll never speak to him again!” declared Mrs. McGibney.
“You might speak to worse, Mrs. McGibney. I’m sure he always spoke most kind of you——”
“How could he speak otherwise of me?” demanded Mrs. McGibney in quick anger.
“Now! now! now!” rumbled McGibney, thrusting his sheet aside and looking warningly at his wife.
“Not making you a sharp answer, Mrs. McGibney,” pursued thick, slow, heavy Clara, “he never said nothing but kind words of you. There’s lots worse than him and he was always a good husband to me, excepting when he was bad, and I hope I’ll never lay my two eyes onto him again.”
And Mrs. McGibney looked at the McGibney sheet as if to say, “You’d best always keep quiet!” and her resentment was over, for she was fond of Clara and had known her many years.