"To see—you?"
"Yes, sir, to see me."
The staccato accent grew difficult and thick. "What for?"
"Because she can't help it. She's sorry for me."
There was a new attempt to ignore me and my troubles as he said:
"Why should she be sorry for you?"
"Because she sees that you're hard on me—"
"I haven't meant to be hard on you, only just."
"Well, just then; but Mrs. Brokenshire doesn't know anything about justice when she can be merciful. You must know that yourself, sir. I think she's the most beautiful woman God ever made; and she's as kind as she's beautiful. I'll tell you something else, sir. It will be another betrayal, but it will show you what she is. One day at Newport—after you'd spoken to me—and she saw that I was so crushed by it that all I could do was to creep down among the rocks and cry—she watched me, and followed me, and came and cried with me. And so when she heard I was here—"
"Who told her?"