Negget, with an indignant glance at her husband.
"Mrs. Pottle," said the farmer, rising slowly and taking a seat on the
oak settle built in the fireplace, "has been away from the village for
near a fortnit."
"I didn't say she took it," snapped his wife. "I said I believe she
knows something about it, and so I do. She's a horrid woman. Look at
the way she encouraged her girl Looey to run after that young traveller
from Smithson's. The whole fact of the matter is, it isn't your brooch,
so you don't care."
"I said--" began Mr. Negget.
"I know what you said," retorted his wife, sharply, "and I wish you'd be
quiet and not interrupt uncle. Here's my uncle been in the police
twenty-five years, and you won't let him put a word in edgeways.'
"My way o' looking at it," said the ex-policeman, slowly, "is different
to that o' the law; my idea is, an' always has been, that everybody is
guilty until they've proved their innocence."
"It's a wonderful thing to me," said Mr. Negget in a low voice to his
pipe, "as they should come to a house with a retired policeman living in
it. Looks to me like somebody that ain't got much respect for the
police."
The ex-policeman got up from the table, and taking a seat on the settle
opposite the speaker, slowly filled a long clay and took a spill from the
fireplace.
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