''Rings may be got,'' she says, ''from just about anywhere.''
''From him,'' I say.
''From anywhere. I could get you ten like that, have them stamped V.R.—Would that make them the Queen''s?''
I cannot answer. For what do I know about where rings come from and how they may be stamped? I say again, more weakly, ''My mother coming here, without a husband. Ill, and coming here. My father— My uncle—'' I look up. ''My uncle. Why should my uncle lie?''
''Why should he tell the truth?'' says Richard, coming forward, speaking at last. ''I dare swear his sister was honest enough, before her ruin, and only unlucky; but that''s the sort of unluckiness— well, that a man doesn''t care to talk about too freely . . .''¤思¤兔¤網¤
I gaze again at the ring. There is a cut upon it I liked, as a girl, to suppose made by a bayonet. Now the gold feels light, as if pierced and made hollow.
''My mother,'' I say, doggedly, ''was mad. She bore me, strapped to a table.—No.'' I put my hands to my eyes. ''That part, perhaps, was my own fancy. But not the rest. My mother was mad—was kept in the cell of a madhouse; and I was made to be mindful of her example, lest I should follow it.''
''She was certainly, once the