He sat down, mechanically, in the nearest chair, bending forward, contemplating his clenched hands. His posture put him at her mercy. She came over to him and laid one hand on his shoulder; the other touched his hair, stroking it. He shrank as if she had hurt him and leaned back. She moved away, and took up a position in a seat that faced him. There she sat and gazed at him, helpless and passive, panting a little with emotion; until a thought occurred to her.
"Who's looking after the little children?"
"Winny—Winny Dymond."
"Why didn't you send for me, Ranny?"
"It was too late—last night."
"I'd have come, my dear. I'd have got out of me bed."
"It wouldn't have done any good."
There was a long pause.
"Were you alone in the house, dear?"
He looked up, angry. "Of course I was alone in the house."