"Shall I give you back your letter?" John Haveril asked.
She took it, tore it up, threw the fragments on the floor, seized her mother by the arm, and dragged her out; whether in repentance or in anger the bystanders could not know.
They were all gone now, except the bankrupt.
"You've got my letter, too," he said. "What are you going to do for me?"
"The kindest thing would be to drop you in the river. Alice has left it to me. Well, you are a hopeless creature. Whatever is done for you will be money thrown away. I did think of asking your cousin, the draper, to give you a place in his shop. You might sweep it out and water the floor, and carry out the parcels—or you might walk up and down outside in uniform, and a gold band to your cap."
"Mr. Haveril—sir—I am a gentleman. Don't insult a fallen gentleman, sir; I've employed my own shop-assistants."
"But I fear he would do nothing for you."
"I came here—one day three weeks ago—you were away—I knew that. I gave Alice some secret information just for her own ear, not the kind of thing she would tell you."