“I am thinking of my life,” she said, with a momentary look at him.
He had a perception that she was one of many, and that he saw the type of thousands, when he saw her, drooping at his feet.
“What are your parents?” he demanded.
“I had a good home once. My father was a gardener, far away, in the country.”
“Is he dead?”
“He’s dead to me. All such things are dead to me. You a gentleman, and not know that!” She raised her eyes again, and laughed at him.
“Girl!” said Redlaw, sternly, “before this death, of all such things, was brought about, was there no wrong done to you? In spite of all that you can do, does no remembrance of wrong cleave to you? Are there not times upon times when it is misery to you?”
So little of what was womanly was left in her appearance, that now, when she burst into tears, he stood amazed. But he was more amazed, and much disquieted, to note that in her awakened recollection of this wrong, the first trace of her old humanity and frozen tenderness appeared to show itself.
He drew a little off, and in doing so, observed that her arms were black, her face cut, and her bosom bruised.
“What brutal hand has hurt you so?” he asked.