‘You no longer steal horses, then?’
‘Oh, no, no.’
‘Nor children?’
‘Why do you say such things?’ shrieked the woman, and her eyes blazed as she looked at Mr. Stinton, and the flush that entered her cheeks deepened her swarthy, ugly complexion by several shades. ‘By my God, if you ask me any more such questions I will do you some mischief.’
‘None of that!’ cried Mr. Harris.
‘My father is a magistrate,’ said Mr. Stinton, who had stepped backwards and now spoke over the shoulders of Mr. Webber.
‘It is a pity to insult the poor creature,’ said one of the ladies.
The gipsy looked for an instant at Mr. Stinton, her eyes then went to Mrs. Webber, and her manner changed; it grew suppliant and cringing; the fierce expression of her lips softened into a fawning smile.
‘Let me tell you your fortune, my gorgeous angel,’ she exclaimed, resuming her former drawling, whining voice. ‘Oh, but I can see that there is a happy fortune for that sweet face. Pull off your beautiful little glove that I may see your hand, and whatever you crosses my own hand with shall be welcome for the sake of your lovely eyes. Ah, what mischief has my lady’s eyes done in their day, and what mischief are they yet to do,’ and thus the woman proceeded.
I could not forbear a smile at the manner in which Mr. Webber readjusted the glass in his eye, as though to obtain a clearer sight of the gipsy, whilst he stroked down one of his whiskers.