A cab rolled past--a melancholy horse; a stout driver, legs
set over a corded box; a black figure, bolt upright, handkerchief to
eyes.
The vision passed. Mr. Marrapit gazed upwards; his thin lips moved.
Vulgar curiosity shall not tempt us to pry into the demeanour with
which, an hour earlier, this man had borne himself in the study with
Mrs. Major. Of that unhappy woman's moans, of her explanations, of the
tears that poured from her eyes--bloodshot in a head most devilishly
racked by Old Tom--we shall not speak.
Margaret stretched her hand for more bread. Despite the moving scenes
in which during the night she had travelled with her Bill, her
appetite was nothing affected. With her meals her sentimentality was
upon the friendliest terms. This girl was most gnawed by hunger when
by emotion she was most torn.
She stretched for a third slice.
Mr. Marrapit cleared his throat. The sound shot her. She caught his
eye and the glance pierced her. Her outstretched hand dropped upon the
cloth, toyed with crumbs.
Mr. Marrapit said: "I perceive you are finished?"
Margaret murmured: "Yes." Her voice had a tremulous note. It is a
bitter thing to lose a slice of bread-and-butter for which the whole
system imperatively calls.
"Withdraw," Mr. Marrapit commanded.
She put a lingering glance upon the loaf; wanly glided from the room.
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