When he does speak, it is to jeer at
her.
'Do you recognise your loving son, missis?' ('Oh, the fine Scotch tang
of him,' she thinks.) 'I'm pleased I wrote so often.' ('Oh, but he's
_raized_,' she thinks.) He strides towards her, and seizes the
letters roughly, 'Let's see them.'
There is a string round the package, and he unties it, and examines the
letters at his leisure with much curiosity. The envelopes are in order,
all addressed in pencil to Mrs. Dowey, with the proud words 'Opened by
Censor' on them. But the letter paper inside contains not a word of
writing.
'Nothing but blank paper! Is this your writing in pencil on the
envelope?' She nods, and he gives the matter further consideration.
'The covey told me you were a charwoman; so I suppose you picked the
envelopes out of waste-paper baskets, or such like, and then changed the
addresses?' She nods again; still she dare not look up, but she is
admiring his legs. When, however, he would cast the letters into the
fire, she flames up with sudden spirit. She clutches them.
'Don't you burn them letters, mister.
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