“I'm just worried; that's all.”
“Let's see if we can't fix up the worries. Come, now, out with them!”
“I'm a wicked woman, Mr. Le Moyne.”
“Then I'm the person to tell it to. I—I'm pretty much a lost soul myself.”
He put an arm over her shoulders and drew her up, facing him.
“Suppose we go into the parlor and talk it out. I'll bet things are not as bad as you imagine.”
But when, in the parlor that had seen Mr. Schwitter's strange proposal of the morning, Tillie poured out her story, K.'s face grew grave.
“The wicked part is that I want to go with him,” she finished. “I keep thinking about being out in the country, and him coming into supper, and everything nice for him and me cleaned up and waiting—O my God! I've always been a good woman until now.”
“I—I understand a great deal better than you think I do. You're not wicked. The only thing is—”
“Go on. Hit me with it.”