“’Tis no gossip. ’Tis my plain duty, an’ no more. If folks down Crishowell way be sayin’ what a mawk you be to have picked up such a bad bit o’ stuff, I’ll let ye know it, an’ no more than Christian too. Not that I wasn’t ashamed to hear them speakin’ such low words about ye, knowin’ that ’twas a holy act ye thought to do. But we’re all deceived sometimes.”
And Nannie stooped, sighing, to take up the imprisoned ducks.
Anne stood contemplating the mixture of fiction and truth served up to her. She wished to dismiss it all with contempt, but the thought of her acts being criticized was too much for her. Criticism spelt outrage to her temperament.
She turned away towards the house, internally fevered. The ducks squalled in Nannie’s grasp as they were carried to the outhouse which was to be their condemned cell. Their jailer hurried along; she had no idea of leaving her work half done.
“Where be I to put them?” she cried above the din.
Mrs. Walters pointed to a door without stopping. The old woman flung it open and deposited her burden. As she shut them up, Anne turned round.
“Come in,” she said stiffly. “I must know who it is that has spoken about Williams.”
“Crishowell folk, mum.”
“How many people?”
“A sight o’ them.”