“And aren’t you sorry for him still?”
She looked up at me again with one of her bright challenges.
“Look here! Do you know him?”
“Tell me first what I asked you. Aren’t you sorry for him still?”
“I dare say I am. I don’t know.”
“What did you—what did you—think of him at the time?”
“I thought he was—terrible.”
“Terrible—in what way?”
“I don’t know that I can tell you in what way. It was so awful to think that a man who had had some advantages should have sunk to that. If he’d been a real burglar—I mean a professional criminal—I should have been afraid of him; but I shouldn’t have had that sensation of something meant for better things that had been debased.”
“Didn’t he tell you he was hungry?”