Mr. Bucket merely shakes the finger at her.
“Ah, my God, you are an unhappy idiot!” cries Mademoiselle with a toss of her head and a laugh. “Leave me to pass downstairs, great pig.” With a stamp of her foot and a menace.
“Now, Mademoiselle,” says Mr. Bucket in a cool determined way, “you go and sit down upon that sofy.”
“I will not sit down upon nothing,” she replies with a shower of nods.
“Now, Mademoiselle,” repeats Mr. Bucket, making no demonstration except with the finger, “you sit down upon that sofy.”
“Why?”
“Because I take you into custody on a charge of murder, and you don’t need to be told it. Now, I want to be polite to one of your sex and a foreigner if I can. If I can’t, I must be rough, and there’s rougher ones outside. What I am to be depends on you. So I recommend you, as a friend, afore another