"I always look at the clock," said Angelica. "But I want to tell you. You know after you said I was a cyclone in petticoats?"
Diavolo nodded. "So you are," he remarked.
"Well, I am, then," Angelica retorted. "Have it so, only don't interrupt me. I can't think why I cared," she added upon reflection; "it seems so little now, and such a long way off."
"Is it as far from the point as you are?" Diavolo courteously inquired.
"Ah, I'm coming to that!" she resumed, and then she graphically recounted her late painful experiences, including the bishop's charge to Sir Mosley Menteith, and poor Edith's last piteous appeal to heaven and earth for the relief which she was not to receive.
"And did she die?" Diavolo asked in an awestruck whisper.
Being less sturdy and more sensitive than Angelica, he was quite shaken by the bare recital of such suffering.
"Not while I was there," Angelica answered. "I heard her as I came out.
She was calling on God then."
They were both silent for some moments after this, Angelica fixed her eyes on the candle, and Diavolo looked up to the unanswering heaven, full of the vague wonderment which asks Why? Why? Why?
"There is no law, you see," Angelica, resumed, "either to protect us or avenge us. That is because men made the law for themselves, and that is why women are fighting for the right to make laws too."