You listened. You couldn't help listening. You simply had to know. It was
no use to say you didn't believe a word of it. Inside you, secretly, you
knew it was true. You were frightened. You trembled and went hot and cold
by turns, and somehow that was how you knew it was true; almost as if you
had known all the time.
"Oh, shut up! I don't _want_ to hear about it."
"Oh, don't you? You did a minute ago."
"Of course I did, when I didn't know. Who wouldn't? I don't want to know
any more."
"I like that. After I've told you everything. What's the good of putting
your fingers in your ears _now_?"
There was that day; and there was the next day when she was sick of
Bertha. On the third day Bertha went back to Woodford Bridge.