after a night of weeping. Last evening the police had visited her room, and had searched it thoroughly. The revelation amazed her; she would not believe the charge that was made against her husband. She became angry with Mrs. Griffin when that practical woman said she was not at all surprised. Utterly gone was her resentment of Bob’s latest cruelty. His failure to return home seemed to prove that he had been arrested, and she could think of nothing but the punishment that awaited him.
“It’s penal servitude,” remarked Mrs. Griffin, frankly. “Five, or p’raps ten, years. I’ve heard of ’em gettin’ sent for life.”
Pennyloaf would not believe in the possibility of this befalling her husband. It was too cruel. There would be some pity, some mercy. She had a confused notion of witnesses being called to give a man a good character, and strengthened herself in the thought of what she would say, under such circumstances, on Bob’s behalf. “He’s been a good ’usband,” she kept repeating to Mrs. Griffin, and to the other neighbours who crowded to indulge their curiosity. “There’s nobody can say as he ain’t been a good ’usband; it’s a lie if they do.”
