“Why did you take hold of me like that? You hurt me.”
“You should not play with me.”
“Play with you? I was not playing. I only asked you to take me to see this room, and this Edwin Lawrence, of whom you keep on speaking—that was all.”
“Yes, that was all.”
“Why do you look at me like that. You make me afraid of you. I thought you were my friend.”
“How can I be your friend, to act a real friend’s part, if you will not trust me?”
“Trust you? Don’t I trust you? I thought I did.”
She spoke like a child, and she was a lovely woman. I knew not what to make of her, what to answer. I had a hundred things to say, which, sooner or later, would have to be said. How was I to express them in words which would reach her understanding? Was she, naturally, mentally deficient? I could not believe it. Hers was not the face of an imbecile. Intellect, intelligence was writ large in every line. What then was the meaning of the cloud which had temporarily paralysed the active forces of her brain? Where was the key to the puzzle? As I hesitated she, coming closer, drawing up the sleeve of her dress, showed me her wrist, on which were the marks of my fingers.
“See how you have hurt me.”
I was shocked; I had not supposed that I had used such force.