Moreover, she was forced to employ a charwoman--a charwoman who had made
a fine art of breaking china, of losing silver teaspoons down sinks, and
of going home of a night with vast pockets full of things that belonged
to her by only nine-tenths of the law. The charwoman ended by tumbling
through a window, smashing panes to the extent of seventeen and
elevenpence, and irreparably ripping one of the historic curtains.
Mrs Garlick then dismissed the charwoman, and sat down to count the cost
of small economics. The privilege of half-dirty curtains had involved
her in an expense of _L9, 19s._, (call it L10). It was in the afternoon.
The figure of Maria crossed the recently-repaired window. Without a
second's thought Mrs Garlick rushed out of the house.
"Maria!" she cried abruptly--with grim humour. "Come here. Come right
inside."
Maria stopped, then obeyed.
"Do you know how much you've let me in for, with your wicked,
disobedient temper?"
"I'd have you know, mum--" Maria retorted, putting her hands on the hips
and forwarding her face.
Their previous scene together was as nothing to this one in sound and
fury.
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