The whole action disturbed him horribly. She had never done such a thing before; she had never done more than kiss him chastely. He freed himself and, still holding her hands, said, “I understand. It’s all over now and I understand.”
She began to cry again helplessly, pitifully. “You’ll forgive me? You’ll forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive. I understand it.” He pushed her gently into a chair, and sat down beside her, silently, wondering how he could bring himself to say what he had to say.
“It’s because I’m so unhappy, Philip.... I’ve been unhappy ever since we left Megambo ... ever since that Englishwoman stopped there. I wish to God we’d never seen her.”
“Let’s not think about her. She had nothing to do with it.”
“And it’s so awful in this dreary house. I’m nothing here, Philip.... I’m less than a hired girl. Your Ma hates me....” He tried to speak, but she cried out passionately, “I can’t go on living here ... I can’t ... I can’t.”
As he sat there, all his horror of scenes, of that wretched scene in the same room the evening before, swept over him. It was like a physical sickness rising into his throat and choking him. He was confused, too, with a sense of impotent rage.
“And after you ran away she told Mabelle she was never to enter the house again.... Now I haven’t any one.”
No, she hadn’t any one, but she didn’t know yet how alone she really was.
“Naomi,” he said quietly. “Naomi ... listen to me ... try to control yourself.”