But Dudley was, manifestly, confounded and dumbfoundered. He stood
for a long time gaping at his father, and stole just one sheepish glance
at me; and, with red face and forehead, looked down at his boots, and then
again at his father, who remained just in the attitude I have described,
and with the same forbidding and dreary intensity in his strange face.
Like a quarrelsome man worried in his sleep by a noise, Dudley suddenly
woke up, as it were, with a start, in a half-suppressed exasperation,
and shook her off with a jerk and a muttered curse, as she whisked
involuntarily into a chair, with more violence than could have been
pleasant.
'Judging by your looks and demeanour, sir, I can almost anticipate your
answers,' said my uncle, addressing him suddenly. 'Will you be good
enough--pray, madame (parenthetically to our visitor), command yourself for
a few moments. Is this young person the daughter of a Mr. Mangles, and is
her name Sarah Matilda?'
'I dessay,' answered Dudley, hurriedly.
'Is she your wife?'
'Is she my wife?' repeated Dudley, ill at ease.
'Yes, sir; it is a plain question.
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