"But, Iolanthe, dear child," I said, "why are you looking at me that way? What have I done to you?"
She jumped to her feet as if startled out of a dream, wiped her forehead and cheeks, and tried to laugh--two or three times--short, abrupt little laughs, like before--and then she burst out crying, and cried as if her heart would break.
I jumped up and went over to her. I should have liked to put my hand on her head, too, but I lacked the courage. I asked her if something was troubling her and whether she would not confide in me, and so on.
"Oh, I'm the most miserable creature on earth," she sobbed.
"Why?"
"I want to do something--something horrible--and I haven't got the courage to."
"Well, well, what is it?"
"I can't tell you! I can't tell you!"
That was all I could get out of her, though I did my best to persuade her to confide more in me. But gradually her expression changed and grew gloomier and more set. And finally she said in a suppressed voice as if to herself:
"I want to go away--I want to run away."