“But I was happy.”
“You isn’t happy now, my girl.”
“No,” she sobbed, “I’m wonderful miserable—now.”
I kicked off the covers. “You’ve the fever, that’s what!” I exclaimed, jumping out of bed.
“’Tis not that, Davy.”
“Then—oh, for pity’s sake, Bessie, tell your brother what’s gone wrong along o’ you!”
“I’m thinkin’, Davy,” she whispered, despairingly, “that I’m nothin’ but a sinful woman.”
“A—what! Why, Bessie——”
“Nothin’,” she repeated, positively, “but a sinful, wicked person.”
“Who told you that?” said I, dancing about in a rage.