Then she is enraged again, and makes some mention of swindlers.

Finally, she sits down crying on a block of stone, and is in all the known and unknown humours of her sex at once.

Pending her changes, those aforesaid marks in his face have come and gone, now here now there, like white steps of a pipe on which the diabolical performer has played a tune.

Also his livid lips are parted at last, as if he were breathless with running.
Yet he is not.
'Now, get up, Mrs Lammle, and let us speak reasonably.' She sits upon her stone, and takes no heed of him.
'Get up, I tell you.' Raising her head, she looks contemptuously in his face, and repeats, 'You tell me! Tell me, forsooth!' She affects not to know that his eyes are fastened on her as she droops her head again; but her whole figure reveals that she knows it uneasily.
'Enough of this.

Come! Do you hear?
Get up.' Yielding to his hand, she rises, and they walk again; but this time with their faces turned towards their place of residence.
'Mrs Lammle, we have both been deceiving, and we have both been deceived.