'I never am, Will. For people of parts there is always plenty of money.'
'You are a Prophetess, Jenny. You will never want for money so long as you live. For all that I have is yours, and I am rich.'
'You are rich?' Over her face, so quick to change, there passed a cloud. 'You are rich? Then—Will ... then ... if you are rich—I must be—a widow. Is Matthew dead?'
'He is dead, Jenny.'
She sank into a chair. She shed no tears: she expressed no sorrow.
'Matthew is dead. I wish I had never met him—Matthew is dead.'
'He is dead, Jenny. He died in the prison.'
'And I am a widow. I am free again. I am a widow who never was a wife. Will, I would not speak ill of the dead—of the unburied: but ... alas! I can find no good words to speak of him. He can do no more harm—either to you or to me.'
'Let us not speak of him, then.'
'No—we must forget him. As for this money, Will, it is yours—your own—yours and Alice's—and the lovely boy's.'