'I'll go and write to her,' said Mr Griffith.
'Write what?'
'Why—that it's all right and she isn't to worry; and we want her back, and that I'll go up and fetch her.'
Mrs Griffith placed herself between him and the door.
'What d'you mean?' she cried. 'She's not coming back into my house.'
Mr Griffith started back.
'You don't want to leave her where she is! She says she'll kill herself.'
'Yes, I believe that,' she replied scornfully; and then, gathering up her anger, 'D'you mean to say you expect me to have her in the house after what she's done? I tell you I won't. She's never coming in this house again as long as I live; I'm an honest woman and she isn't. She's a—' Mrs Griffith called her daughter the foulest name that can be applied to her sex.
Mr Griffith stood indecisively before his wife.
'But think what a state she's in, mother. She was crying when she wrote the letter.'