The mere sound of her speaking soothed me. To my mind, one of the greatest charms of a woman should be her voice. Never did I hear a more comfortable voice than hers. It was impossible to imagine that a voice in which, to my ears, rang so unmistakably the accents of truth, could belong to one who was false. Removing my hands, I looked at her again.
She had smeared her countenance with her fingers; all down one side of her face was a crimson stain.
“Look,” I cried, “at what you’ve done!”
“What have I done?”
“What’s on your hands?”
“My hands? What is on my hands?”
She held out her hands in front of her, staring at them with the most innocent air in the world.
“It’s blood.”
“Blood? Where has it come from?”
She asked the question as a child might do. In spite of her blood-stained face, the ring of truth which was in her voice, the unspoken appeal which was in her eyes, went to my heart.