y had got her, put in a cell,'' says Richard; ''as we know girls are, from time to time, for the satisfaction of gentlemen.—Well, no more of that, just yet.'' He has caught Mrs Sucksby''s eye. ''And you were certainly kept in fear of following her, Maud. And what did that do to you?—save make you anxious, obedient, careless of your own comforts—in other words, exactly fit you to your uncle''s fancy? Didn''t I tell you once, what a scoundrel he was?''
''You are wrong,'' I say. ''You are wrong, or mistaken.''
''No mistake,'' answers Mrs Sucksby.
''You may be lying, even now. Both of you!''
''We may be.'' She taps her mouth. ''But you see, dear girl, we ain''t.''
''My uncle,'' I say again. ''My uncle''s servants. Mr Way, Mrs Stiles . . .''
But I say it, and I feel—the ghost of a pressure—Mr Way''s shoulder against my ribs, his finger in the crook of my knee: Fancy yourself a lady, do you?—And then, and then, Mrs Stiles''s hard hands on my pimpling arms and her breath against my cheek:
Why your mother, with all her fortune, should have turned out trash—/
I know it, I know it. I still hold the ring. Now, with a cry, I throw it to the floor—as I once, as a furious child, threw cups and saucers.
''Damn him!'' I say. I think of myself at the foot of my uncle''s bed, the razor in my hand, his unguarded eye. Confidence Abused. ''Damn him!'' Richard nods. I turn upon him, then. And damn you, with him! You knew this, all along? Why not tell me, at Briar? Don''t you think it would have made me the likelier to go with you? Why wait, and bring me here—to this foul place!—to trick and surprise me?''