“I am not. I am not really related to you in any way. You know I am not.”
“You are related to Miss Cahoon. You are her sister's daughter. She wants you to come. She wants you to live with us again, just as you did before.”
“She wants that! She—But it was your money that paid for the very clothes I wore. Your money—not hers; she said so.”
“That doesn't make any difference. She wants you and—”
I was about to add “and so do I,” but she did not permit me to finish the sentence. She interrupted again, and there was a change in her tone.
“Stop! Oh, stop!” she cried. “She wanted me and—and so you—Did you think I would consent? To live upon your charity?”
“There is no charity about it.”
“There is. You know there is. And you believed that I—knowing what I know—that my father—my own father—”
“Hush! hush! That is all past and done with.”
“It may be for you, but not for me. Mr. Knowles, your opinion of me must be a very poor one. Or your desire to please your aunt as great as your—your charity to me. I thank you both, but I shall stay here. You must go and you must not try to see me again.”