taking place between them. 'She used to be so elegant; she was a fine woman,' she observed, gently and helplessly.
'Il a honte de moi—il a honte, Dieu le pardonne!' Florentine Vivier went on, never moving her eyes.
'She's asking for something, in her language. I used to know a few words,' said Miss Pynsent, stroking down the bed, very nervously.
'Who is that woman? what does she want?' Hyacinth asked, his small, clear voice ringing over the dreary room.
'She wants you to come near her, she wants to kiss you, sir,' said Mrs. Bowerbank, as if it were more than he deserved.
'I won't kiss her; Pinnie says she stole a watch!' the child answered with resolution.
'Oh, you dreadful—how could you ever?' cried Pinnie, blushing all over and starting out of her chair.
It was partly Amanda's agitation, perhaps, which, by the jolt it administered, gave an impulse to the sick woman, and partly the penetrating and expressive tone in which Hyacinth announced his repugnance: at any rate, Florentine, in the most unexpected and violent manner, jerked herself up from her pillow, and, with dilated eyes and waving hands, shrieked out, 'Ah, quelle infamie! I never stole a watch, I never stole anything—anything! Ah, par exemple!' Then she fell back, sobbing with the passion that had given her a moment's strength.
'I'm sure you needn't put more on her than she has by rights,' said Mrs. Bowerbank, with dignity, to the dressmaker, laying a large red hand upon the patient, to keep her in her place.
