I mean
it!'
Bessie was in a genuine fit of sullenness. One of her hands was
clenched below her chin; her pretty lips were not pretty at all; her
brow was rumpled. Jane began to seek for the cause of dissension, to
put affectionate questions, to use her voice soothingly.
'He's a beast!' was Bessie's reiterated observation; but by degrees
she added phrases more explanatory. 'How can I help it if he cuts
himself when he's shaving?--Serve him right!--What for? Why, for
saying that babies was nothing but a nuisance, and that _my_ baby
was the ugliest and noisiest ever born!'
'Did she cry in the night?' inquired Jane, with sympathy.
'Of course she did! Hasn't she a right to?'
'And then Mr. Byass cut himself with his razor?'
'Yes. And he said it was because he was woke so often, and it made
him nervous, and his hand shook. And then I told him he'd better cut
himself on the other side, and it wouldn't matter. And then he
complained because he had to wait for breakfast. And he said there'd
been no comfort in the house since we'd had children. And I cared
nothing about him, he said, and only about the baby and Ernest. And
he went on like a beast, as he is! I hate him!'
'Oh no, not a bit of it!' said Jane, seeing the opportunity for a
transition to jest.
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