Cuff--good as gold, and kinder than a
sister to my Lucy--but always a little strange. There! I humoured her.
Three and sixpence. On the word of an honest woman, three and sixpence,
Mr. Cuff!"
"Each?" says the Sergeant.
"Both together!" says Mrs. Yolland. "Three and sixpence for the two."
"Given away, ma'am," says the Sergeant, shaking his head. "Clean given
away!"
"There's the money," says Mrs. Yolland, getting back sideways to the
little heap of silver on the table, as if it drew her in spite of
herself. "The tin case and the dog chains were all she bought, and all
she took away. One and ninepence and three and sixpence--total, five and
three. With my love and respects--and I can't find it in my conscience
to take a poor girl's savings, when she may want them herself."
"I can't find it in MY conscience, ma'am, to give the money back,"
says Sergeant Cuff. "You have as good as made her a present of the
things--you have indeed."
"Is that your sincere opinion, sir?" says Mrs. Yolland brightening up
wonderfully.
"There can't be a doubt about it," answered the Sergeant. "Ask Mr.
Betteredge."
It was no use asking ME. All they got out of ME was, "Good-night.
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