But Beatrice, fiery, impetuous Beatrice, could not understand this calm. She was shaken by a tempest of excitement and wrath.
“You forgave him, Monica? Ah! how could you? Randolph’s murderer!”
“Yes, I forgave him.”
“You should not! You should not! It was not—it could not be right! Monica, I cannot understand you. I think you are made of stone!”
She said nothing; she smiled. That smile was only seen by Haddon. It thrilled him to his heart’s core.
“How came you to be with him at all?” said Tom, almost sternly. “It was not your duty to be there. It was no fit place for you.”
“I think my place is where there is sorrow and need and loneliness,” answered Monica, very gently. “He needed me—and I came to him.”
“He sent for you?”
“I think he did.”