"But, what name shall I give her?" "Well," I said, "think on: she''s to be a lady after all, there''s no helping it now. Give her a name that''ll fit her. What''s your own name? Give her that." Then she looked dark. She said, "My name''s a hateful one, I''d sooner curse her before I let anyone call her Marianne—''"
She stops, seeing my face. It has jumped, or twisted—though I have known that the story must reach this point, and have stood, feeling my breath come shorter, my stomach grow sourer, as the tale proceeds. I draw in my breath. ''It''s not true,'' I say. ''My mother, coming here, without a husband? My mother was mad. My father was a soldier. I have his ring. Look here, look here!''
I have gone to my bag, and I stoop to it, and pull at the torn leather and find the little square of linen that holds my jewels. There is the ring that they gave me in the madhouse: I hold it up. My hand is shaking. Mrs Sucksby studies it and shrugs.