He had half-closed his eyes but now he opened them and surveyed her keenly.
"You 've told me how reasonable the whole thing was," he said, in deliberate tones. "It was reasonable. That part of it 's as right as it can be. I understand the picturesqueness of it all and the sadness; it is a sad business. I could understand your connection with it, too, in spite of the man's hiding from the police, if only he wasn't a nigger. Beg pardon—a negro."
Margaret was following his words intently.
"What has that got to do with it?" she asked.
"You don't see it?" inquired Ford. "Didn't you find it rather awful, being alone with him? Didn't it make you creepy when he touched your hand?"
He was curious about it, apart from her share in the matter. He was interested in the impersonal aspect of the question as well.
"I didn't like his face, at first," admitted Margaret.
"And afterwards?"
"Afterwards I didn't mind it," she replied. "I 'd got used to it, you see."
He nodded. Upon her answer he had dropped his eyes and was no longer looking at her.