“HE SAID THAT THE Jews had a treasure belonging to his father,” Samson Simson whispered. “Where would he get such an idea, if not from you?” “Don’t hardly know him,” Hannah said. “Likes o’ him don’t discuss his private business with the likes o’ me.” The likes of what she’d become at any rate, Simson thought, though she’d once claimed a social station as high or higher than that of Joyful Turner. No candle burned inside the shack, much less an oil lamp, but what remained of the evening light came in through the chinks in the walls. It was enough for him to see the utter poverty of the hovel. “Holy heaven, how can you live like…” He glanced over to where a boy lay on a pile of rags, propped up on his elbow, listening to every word. “Come outside,” he told her. “Now.” Hannah got to her feet, conscious that Will was watching her. “Not to worry,” she told him.
