"
The figure in the corner continuing to whine and whimper, Miss Wren
covered her face with her hand. "There!" she said, "I can't bear to look
at you. Go upstairs and get me my bonnet and shawl. Make yourself useful
in some way, bad boy, and let me have your room instead of your company,
for one half minute."
Obeying her, he shambled out, and Mr. Wrayburn, pitying, saw the tears
exude between the little creature's fingers, as she kept her hand
before her eyes.
"I am going to the Italian Opera to try on," said Miss Wren, taking away
her hand, and laughing satirically to hide that she had been crying.
"But let me first tell you, Mr. Wrayburn, once for all, that it's no use
your paying visits to me. You wouldn't get what you want of me, no, not
if you brought pincers with you to tear it out."
With which statement, and a further admonition to her father, who had
come back, she blew her candles out, and taking her big door-key in her
pocket, and her crutch-stick in her hand, marched off.
Not many months later, one day while Miss Wren was waiting in the office
of Pubsey and Co., for Mr. Riah to come in and sell her the waste she
was accustomed to buy, she overheard a conversation between Mr.
Fledgeby, who had apparently happened in, and a friend who was also
waiting for Mr. Riah.
This conversation led her to infer that her old friend was both a
treacherous and dishonest man, and entirely unworthy to be trusted in
any capacity.
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