"It isn't that. It's because they were mine—because I wore them." Kitty began to sob.
"No, no, dear Mrs. Tailleur——"
"Yes, yes. She—she thought they'd c—c—contaminate her."
Kitty's sobs broke into the shrill laugh of hysteria. Jane led her to the couch and sat beside her. Kitty leaned forward, staring at the floor. Now and then she pressed her handkerchief to her mouth, stifling. Suddenly she looked up into Jane's face.
"Would you mind wearing a frock I'd worn?"
"Of course I wouldn't."
Kitty's handkerchief dropped on to her lap, a soaked ball, an insufficient dam.
"Oh," she cried, "the beast!—the little, little beast!"
She looked again at Jane, but with a glance half cowed, half candid; like a child that has proved, indubitably, its predestined naughtiness.
"I didn't mean to use that word."