‘Do not imagine that I will leave poor Jacques. Beyond was a field sloping steeply upwards, and at the top a small pine plantation. I defy you to explain it away. When I went I was refused admittance. "No," replied Jonathan, with a brutal laugh. She said that she couldn’t stand Mike. But this revulsion was engulfed by the succeeding waves of pity and understanding. The air was pungent and leaden. You’d better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the postoffice and draw it out a fiver at a time. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. She let out a wail.
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