All this time, Mr. Boffin had been rolling his eyes over his loosened neckerchief, as if his fit were still upon him. Appearing now to think that he was coming to, he stared straight before him for a while, tied his neckerchief again, took several long inspirations, swallowed several times, and ultimately exclaimed with a deep sigh, as if he felt himself on the whole better: “Well!”
No word, good or bad, did Mrs. Boffin say; but she tenderly took care of Bella, and glanced at her husband as if for orders. Mr. Boffin, without imparting any, took his seat on a chair over against them, and there sat leaning forward, with a fixed countenance, his legs apart, a hand on each knee, and his elbows squared, until Bella should dry her eyes and raise her head, which in the fullness of time she did.
“I must go home,” said Bella, rising hurriedly. “I am very grateful to you for all you have done for me, but I can’t stay here.”
“My darling girl!” remonstrated Mrs. Boffin.
“No, I can’t stay here,” said Bella; “I can’t indeed.—Ugh! you vicious old thing!” (This to Mr. Boffin.)
“Don’t be rash, my love,” urged Mrs. Boffin. “Think well of what you do.”
“Yes, you had better think well,” said Mr. Boffin.
“I shall never more think well of you ,” cried Bella, cutting him short, with intense defiance in her expressive little eyebrows, and championship of the late Secretary in every dimple. “No! Never again! Your money has changed you to marble. You are a hardhearted miser. You are worse than Dancer, worse than Hopkins, worse than Blackberry Jones, worse than any of the wretches. And more!” proceeded Bella, breaking into tears again, “you were wholly undeserving of the gentleman you have lost.”