XXVIII.
“She looks well,” said he, somewhat absently.
“She looks well!” cried I, half-way nettled now;
Should Edith be abused, forsooth, to show
What brutes men are who lose their trust! “She looks—
For what then do you take her? for a frame,
An empty effigy of human shape,
Like what a shopman hangs his gowns upon?—
Her soul is what I spoke of,—of her soul.”
“Her soul?” he said; “may be; but I, may be,