He had just heard the workhouse clock strike two, when, without the warning of a footstep, the door opened. Amy came in; she wore her dressing-gown, and her hair was arranged for the night.
‘Why do you stay here?’ she asked.
It was not the same voice as before. He saw that her eyes were red and swollen.
‘Have you been crying, Amy?’
‘Never mind. Do you know what time it is?’
He went towards her.
‘Why have you been crying?’
‘There are many things to cry for.’
‘Amy, have you any love for me still, or has poverty robbed me of it all?’
‘I have never said that I didn’t love you. Why do you accuse me of such things?’