“That is my business and no one else’s,” replied Anne haughtily.
He ground his teeth together.
“If you have no more to say,” she continued, after a pause in which the sense of his own impotence nearly drove Bumpett mad, “you had better go.”
A wave of rage surged over him. He got up red in the face.
“I’ll have him in jail yet!” he cried, flourishing his arm, “I will! I tell ’ee he won’t bide here much longer. Look at that!”
And he whipped the paper out of his pocket and slammed it down on the table. Anne watched him with disdain.
“Look ’ee here! Look ’ee here! D’ye see that? There’s his own name to it—three pound thirteen an’ four. Ah, but I’ve showed mercy on him, I have! An’ me waitin’ all this time for my money. D’ye see that date?”
His thumb shook as he planted it on the grotesque writing.
“Why should he go to jail if he pays you?”