And he did, and there is no doubt that this was what saved Grizel in the end. How he strove to prevent her slipping back! The morning was the time when she was least troubled, and had he humoured her then they would often have been easy hours for him. But it was the time when he tried most doggedly, with a gentleness she could not ruffle, to teach her the alphabet of who she was. She coaxed him to let her off those mental struggles; she turned petulant and sulky; she was willing to be good and sweet if he would permit her to sew or to sing to herself instead, or to sit staring at the fire: but he would not yield; he promised those things as the reward, and in the end she stood before him like a child at lessons.
"What is your name?" The catechism always began thus.
"Grizel," she said obediently, if it was a day when she wanted to please him.
"And my name?"
"Tommy." Once, to his great delight, she said, "Sentimental Tommy." He quite bragged about this to David.
"Where is your home?"
"Here." She was never in doubt about this, and it was always a pleasure to her to say it.
"Did you live here long ago?"
She nodded.
"And then did you live for a long time somewhere else?"