Though we might, perhaps, have stayed
as weekly tenants--if it had not been for me."
"What about you?"
"I am not a--proper woman."
D'Urberville's face flushed.
"What a blasted shame! Miserable snobs! May their dirty souls
be burnt to cinders!" he exclaimed in tones of ironic resentment.
"That's why you are going, is it? Turned out?"
"We are not turned out exactly; but as they said we should have to go
soon, it was best to go now everybody was moving, because there are
better chances."
"Where are you going to?"
"Kingsbere. We have taken rooms there. Mother is so foolish about
father's people that she will go there."
"But your mother's family are not fit for lodgings, and in a little
hole of a town like that. Now why not come to my garden-house at
Trantridge? There are hardly any poultry now, since my mother's
death; but there's the house, as you know it, and the garden. It
can be whitewashed in a day, and your mother can live there quite
comfortably; and I will put the children to a good school. Really
I ought to do something for you!"
"But we have already taken the rooms at Kingsbere!" she declared.
"And we can wait there--"
"Wait--what for? For that nice husband, no doubt.
Pages:
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591