"No doubt. All."
"All the debts for which he has been imprisoned here, all my life and longer?"
"No doubt."
There was something of uncertainty and remonstrance in her look; something that was not all satisfaction. He wondered to detect it, and said:
"Are you not glad?"
"It seems to me hard," said Little Dorrit, "that he should have lost so many years and suffered so much, and at last pay all the debts as well. It seems to me hard that he should pay in life and money both."
"My dear child—" Clennam was beginning.
"Yes, I know I am wrong," she pleaded timidly, "don't think any worse of me; it has grown up with me here."
The prison, which could spoil so many things, had tainted Little Dorrit's mind no more than this. It was the first speck Clennam had ever seen, it was the last speck Clennam ever saw, of the prison atmosphere upon her.
He thought this, and forebore to say another word. With the thought, her purity and goodness came before him in their brightest light. The little spot made them the more beautiful.