The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears. When she had finished the first tale, there was a sense of disappointment. "It is addressed to my mother," he added, as his eye glanced rapidly over it, "and by my father. Without realizing what she has done, she's made a dreadful mess of it. Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft. "Whose child can this be?" "How the devil should I know!" replied Jonathan gruffly. Then they dressed her in a dirty dress of coarse serge and a cap, and took away her own clothes. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. Just speak the word," he added, drawing the knife significantly across his throat, "and I'll put it out of his power to do the same by your second. "And so we're to be summoned from our beds and snug firesides, because a kid happens to squall, eh? By the soul of my grandmother, but this is too good!" "Do you intend to claim the privileges of the Mint?" said Jonathan, calmly pursuing his interrogations amid the uproar. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips.
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