“Yes, where she comes from, who her people are—that sort of thing?”
Mrs. Folliott’s face wore more than ever its frozen look.
“I don’t know at all.”
“Who was she with before she came to you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember.”
There was a spark of anger now underlying her nervousness. She flung up her head in a gesture that was vaguely familiar.
“Is it really necessary to ask all these questions?”
“Not at all,” I said, with an air of surprise and a tinge of apology in my manner. “I had no idea you would mind answering them. I am very sorry.”
Her anger left her and she became confused again.
“Oh! I don’t mind answering them. I assure you I don’t. Why should I? It—it just seemed a little odd, you know. That’s all. A little odd.”