“Shall I often see you?”
“Never. I am not fond of inflictions.”
He spoke so drily, and the words were so unkind, that Rosalie’s wistful face grew paler. Yet still she argued to herself it would be selfish to wish to be free, to have a tongue and everything. And after all, the stranger was so clever that he must of necessity know best.
“Will you let me out just for an hour?” she asked at length, with a voice greatly subdued from the first clamorous outburst.
“Not for an hour.”
“But I have an aunt, and she is dead. I shouldn’t like strangers to take what once belonged to her.”
“Where is your uncle?”
“He is dead too.”
“Your people?”
“I have none.”