He did not answer, sitting there, drooped forward for so long that finally she put out her hand to touch his.
"Did she?"
He did not turn his face, but reached around, inclosing her wrist, pressing it, gripping it.
"Did she, mister?"
"No, no," he said, finally, "no, Stella; she didn't die thinkin' you bad."
She sighed out, eyes closing, and her quivering lips falling quiet.
"Do you think I'm bad, mister?"
"No, Stella! No! No! No! My God, no!"
"I'm cold."
"Come."