"I had to come, Mam'selle," said Marcel, "not because you need me or because I want to act a part, making myself better or different; it isn't that. I just want to stand a bit closer because I feel you are a good woman. I've always felt that, and my opinion hasn't changed, only I want you to know."
Jo tried not to smile; she felt she was taking of Marcel's best under false pretences. Had she been what they all thought, this neighbourly act would have bowed her with gratitude. As it was she felt a deeper sympathy for Marcel than she had ever felt, and she yearned to confide in her—but she dared not.
"Nights I get to thinking," Marcel droned on while Jo's busy fingers flew at her task, "how it was with you when she came," Marcel nodded toward the couch.
And now Jo's face twitched. How little any one guessed, or could guess, how it had been with her at the time when another woman gave birth to the girl.
"I got through somehow," she replied vaguely.
"We never get to a wall without finding an opening to crawl through, Marcel. It may be a pretty tight squeeze, but we get through."
"God knows those times are hard for a woman, Mam'selle."
"They are, bitter hard."
"And men folks don't take them into account."
"How can they, Marcel? It wouldn't be reasonable to expect it."