“Come with me to Paris.”
“To Paris?”
“Yes, to-morrow.”
There was another instant of silence, and then again Zabetta began to cry.
“Will you? Will you? Will you come with me to Paris?” I implored her.
“Oh, I would, I would. But I can’t. I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, I can’t.”
“Why? Why can’t you?”
“Oh, my father—I cannot leave my father.”