This was the bitterest hour he had ever known. Because of the Dance. But her husband, whose deportment to her was considerably changed since the fatal knot had been tied, paid no attention whatever to her grief. "Hush!" said she, in a low, but agitated voice; "would you earn this purse?" "I've no objection," replied Blueskin, in a tone intended to be gentle, but which sounded like the murmuring whine of a playful bear. That she was provoked by his interference was obvious. “Don’t be a hypocrite. The latter began to heave himself up from the sand. "What!" she exclaimed, almost choked with passion,—"I advised you to burthen yourself with that idle and good-for-nothing pauper, who'm you ought rather to send to the workhouse than maintain at your own expense, did I! I advised you to take him as an apprentice; and, so far from getting the regular fee with him, to give him a salary? I advised you to feed him, and clothe him, and treat him like his betters; to put up with his insolence, and wink at his faults? I counselled all this, I suppose. I didn’t dream, not even in my wildest dreaming, that—you might have any need of me. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. Or at least he did the day before yesterday. "I told you that before," rejoined Wood, testily.
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