He peered at her from under his heavy lashes with a real curiosity. "You say wicked? But you were going to do the same thing yourself?"
"Yes, but that was different. If I had been a man I wouldn't. It is cowardly for a man to bolt. It is the only thing a girl can do—sometimes."
He took a long look at her. There were so many things to say—such crushing replies to make to her artless philosophy. But he was too weak and shaken to make them.
"Come," he said, "shall I take you to a hospital, or will you wait here while I go and see if I can find the parish doctor?"
She waved her small frail hand to the mug on the table. "I'll share that stuff with you."
Felix sat reflecting. He could not give her poison. Why could he not? Which was wrong—his former despair, or his new-found sentiment? He could not determine, but he was bracing himself up to resist her. "There's not enough to kill us both," he said, weakly, "and I am not going to let you throw yourself on those lines down there."
She made no reply to this, but lay with her eyes closed. He ventured a question, "How far did you fall?"
"Only from the room just above this. He locked me in."
"Who did?"
"The man who calls himself my uncle." She pushed up her sleeve, showing a livid bruise upon her arm. "Look," she said, "there are worse on my back and shoulders."