Bubb and Mrs.
Clover. Set upon her feet, Polly seemed for a moment about to rush
to the window; a second thought led her to the mirror over the
mantelpiece, where, fiercely eyeing the reflected group behind her,
she made shift to smooth her hair and arrange her dress. Gammon had
sunk upon a chair and was mopping his forehead. He had suffered far
more than Polly in the encounter, and looked indeed, with wild hair,
scratched face, burst collar, loose necktie, a startling object.
"Now, then!" the girl moved towards him, fists clenched, as if to
renew hostilities. "What d'you mean by this? Just you tell me what
you mean by it."
"As soon as I can get breath, my dear. I meant to bring you down to
speak to your aunt, and I've done it--see?"
" I'm ashamed of you, Mr. Gammon," exclaimed Mrs. Clover severely.
"I never thought you would go so far as this."
"Ashamed of him, are you?" shrieked the girl, turning furiously upon
her relative. "Be ashamed of yourself! What do you call yourself,
eh? A respectable woman? And you look on while your own niece is
treated in this way.
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