''Go to hell, will you?'' I say.
He smiles. Mrs Sucksby colours, then laughs. ''Hark at that,'' she says. ''Common girl says that, sounds awfully vulgar. Lady says it, sounds almost sweet. Still, dear''—here she leans across the table, drops her voice—''I wish you mightn''t speak so nasty.''
I hold her gaze. ''And you think,'' I answer levelly, ''your wishes are something to me, do you?''
She flinches, and colours harder; her eyelids flutter and she looks away.
I drink my coffee, then, and don''t speak again. Mrs Sucksby sits, softly beating her hands upon the table-top, her brows drawn together into a frown. John and Richard play again at dice, and quarrel over the game. Dainty washes napkins in a bowl of brown water, then sets them before the fire to steam and stink. I close my eyes. My stomach aches and aches. If I had a knife, I think again. Or an axe . . .
But the room is so stiflingly hot, and I am so weary and sick, my head falls back and I sleep. When I