Percy drooped to her. “I warned you when you wished to read it.”
“But, you see, you have bewildered him. It was scarcely wise to write other than plain facts. Men of that class.” She stopped.
“Of that class?” said he.
“Men of any class, then: you yourself: if any one wrote to you such things, what would you think? It is very unfair. I have the honour of seeing you daily, because you cannot trust me out of your sight? What is there inexplicable about me? Do you wonder that I talk openly of women who are betrayed, and do my best to help them?”.
“On the contrary; you command my esteem,” said Percy.
“But you think me a puppet?”
“Fond of them, perhaps?” his tone of voice queried in a manner that made her smile.
“I hate them,” she said, and her face expressed it.
“But you make them.”
“How? You torment me.”