As soon as Eudora was brought into the room they ceased their talk to stare at her, as though she had been a vision from another world.
Truly, she was a strange visitant of such a place as that.
In a moment, however, they seemed to have fixed upon her identity, and began an eager whispering concerning her supposed crimes and probable fate.
As soon as the policemen had gone, and the strong oaken door was locked and barred upon her, and she found herself alone among these wretched outcasts, fear and loathing seized her soul, and she retreated to the remotest corner of the hall, where she crouched down upon the bench, and covered her face with her veil.
But Eudora had to learn in her misery that human sympathies still lived in the seared hearts of those poor women, dead though they seemed to all higher feelings.
While shrinking in horror from the sight and hearing of these lost creatures, Eudora heard one whisper to another:
“Go to her, Nance, you’re the youngest of the lot, and maybe she’ll not be frightened of you. Go to her, there’s a good lass; see, she aint used to being in a place like this.”
“I dunnot like to go, Poll. She’s a lady, and I dunnot like to.”
“But she is in trouble with the rest of us, Nance, and she’s a stranger to the place, with no one to speak to. Go to her, there’s a good lass.”
“Well, if you’ll go with me and speak first.”