“Oh no, I think not. Don’t trouble about me.”
“But—” Phillotson seized the knob and pulled at the door. She had fastened it inside with a piece of string, which broke at his pull. There being no bedstead she had flung down some rugs and made a little nest for herself in the very cramped quarters the closet afforded.
When he looked in upon her she sprang out of her lair, great-eyed and trembling.
“You ought not to have pulled open the door!” she cried excitedly. “It is not becoming in you! Oh, will you go away; please will you!”
She looked so pitiful and pleading in her white nightgown against the shadowy lumber-hole that he was quite worried. She continued to beseech him not to disturb her.
He said: “I’ve been kind to you, and given you every liberty; and it is monstrous that you should feel in this way!”
“Yes,” said she, weeping. “I know that! It is wrong and wicked of me, I suppose! I am very sorry. But it is not I altogether that am to blame!”
“Who is then? Am I?”
“No—I don’t know! The universe, I suppose—things in general, because they are so horrid and cruel!”
“Well, it is no use talking like that. Making a man’s house so unseemly at this time o’ night! Eliza will hear if we don’t mind.” (He meant the servant.) “Just think if either of the parsons in this town was to see us now! I hate such eccentricities, Sue. There’s no order or regularity in your sentiments! … But I won’t intrude on you further; only I would advise you not to shut the door too tight, or I shall find you stifled to-morrow.”