“Yes. Why not?”
“Are you mad?”
“No. Why should I not sell what is my own?”
“Can you not understand?” cried Harry, whose voice sounded harsh from the mental irritation which had given him the look of one in constant dread of arrest.
“No, dear, I cannot. I want to help you. I want to get away from here—to remove you from the influence of this man, so that we may, if it must be so, get abroad and then set them at rest.”
“Now you are bringing that up again,” he cried angrily.
“I must, Harry, I must. I have been too weak as it is; but in the excitement of all that trouble I seemed to be influenced by you in all I did.”
“There, there, little sis,” he said more gently. “I ought not to speak so crossly, but I am always on thorns, held back as I am for want of a few paltry pounds.”
“Then let me go and dispose of these things.”
“It is impossible.”