“But why are you crying? Do tell me. Can I do anything?”
“No no. What does it matter whether I laugh or cry? Nothing matters now. I don't care what becomes of me.”
“A pretty girl like you; nonsense! Some one rich and grand will fall in love with you, and give you everything you want.”
“I don't want any one to fall in love with me; I am done for—don't care what becomes of me.”
“Do tell me about it. Have you heard anything further about him? Do tell me; don't cry like that.”
“No, no, leave me, leave me! I am so miserable. I don't know why I wrote to you. I hope I shall die.”
“It is very lucky you did write to me, for you are clearly very ill. What is the matter?”
“I don't know; I can't get warm. This room is very cold—don't you think so?”
“Cold? No.”
“I feel cold; my throat is very bad—perhaps I shall be better in the morning.”