She looked at him now, straight, for the first time.
"Ranny—he knows. He knows what we did."
"Did you tell him?"
"Not me! He'd guessed it. He'd guessed it all the time. Trust him. And he taxed me with it. And I lied. I wasn't goin' to have him thinkin' that of you."
"Of me?"
"Yes—you." It was her first flash of feeling since she began her tale. "It doesn't matter what he thinks of me. I told him so."
"Well? Then?"
"Then I started lookin' for work again. Couldn't get any. Then I came here. If you turn me out there'll be nothing but the streets. If I was to get work nobody'll keep me. I haven't properly got over that illness. I'm so weak I couldn't stand to do anything long. There are times when I can hardly hold myself together."
And still there was no feeling in her voice, and barely the suggestion of appeal; only the flat tones of the last extremity.
"I've come here because I'm afraid of going to the bad. I don't want to be bad—not reelly bad. But I'll be driven to it if you turn me out."