"But I should. There have been men who haven't—and they've saved their lives by it. But you know what we've called them."
"In my case there'd be only you to call me that—if you wanted to."
"Oh no; there'd be—you."
"I can stand that. I've stood it for eight years already. If you think I haven't had times when it's been hell, you're quite mistaken. I wonder if you can guess what it means to me—in here"—he tapped his breast—"to go round among all these good, kind, honorable people, passing myself off as Herbert Strange when all the time I'm Norrie Ford—and a convict? But I'm forced to. There's no way out of it."
"Because there's no way out of it isn't a reason for going further in."
"What does that matter? When you're in up to the eyes, what does it matter if you go over your head?"
"In this case it would matter to Evie. That's my point. I have to protect her—to save her. There's no one but me to do it—and you."
"Don't count on me," he said, savagely. "I've the right, in this wild beast's life, to seize anything I can snatch."
He renewed his arguments, going over all the ground again. She listened to him as she had once listened to his plea in his defence—her pose pensive, her chin resting on her hand, her eyes pitiful. As far as she was aware of her own feelings it was merely to take note that a kind of yearning over him, an immense sorrow for him and with him, had extinguished the fires that a few days ago were burning for herself. It was hard to sit there heedless of his exposition and deaf to his persuasion. Seeing her inflexible, he became halting in his speech, till finally he stopped, still looking at her with an unresenting, dog-like gaze of entreaty.
She made no comment when he ceased, and for a time they sat in silence.