'Yes,' he replied.
'What, that you'll alter your will?'
'Yes.'
'You won't,' said his angry daughter.
But he looked at her with a malevolent little smile.
'Annie!' he shouted. 'Annie!'
He had still power to make his voice carry. The servant maid came in from
the kitchen.
'Put your things on, and go down to Whittle's office, and say I want to
see Mr. Whittle as soon as he can, and will he bring a will-form.'
The sick man lay back a little--he could not lie down. His daughter sat
as if she had been struck. Then she left the room.
Hadrian was pottering about in the garden. She went straight down to him.
'Here,' she said. 'You'd better get off. You'd better take your things
and go from here, quick.'
Hadrian looked slowly at the infuriated girl.
'Who says so?' he asked.
'_We_ say so--get off, you've done enough mischief and damage.'
'Does Uncle say so?'
'Yes, he does.'
'I'll go and ask him.'
But like a fury Emmie barred his way.
'No, you needn't. You needn't ask him nothing at all. We don't want you,
so you can go.'
'Uncle's boss here.'
'A man that's dying, and you crawling round and working on him for his
money!--you're not fit to live.'
'Oh!' he said. 'Who says I'm working for his money?'
'I say. But my father told our Matilda, and _she_ knows what you are.
_She_ knows what you're after. So you might as well clear out, for all
you'll get--guttersnipe!'
He turned his back on her, to think.
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