"Three years," she said, "and two months."
"And two months. Do you remember how I found you, up there, under the roof, in that house in Charlotte Street?"
"Yes," she said, "I remember."
"You were curled up on that funny couch in the corner, with your back against the wall——"
"I was sitting on my feet to keep them warm."
"I know. And you wore a white shawl——"
"No," she entreated, "not a shawl."
"A white something. It doesn't matter. I don't really remember anything but your small face, and your terrified eyes looking at me out of the corner, and your poor little cold hands."
She wondered, did he remember her shabby gown, her fireless room, the queer couch that was her bed, the hunger and the nakedness of her surroundings?
"You sat," she said, "on my trunk, the wooden one with the nails on it. It must have been so uncomfortable."