“Why did you do it?”
She spoke in a quiet and accusing voice, like a grown child who is unable to understand the ways of rough men.
“He had done nothing to you. He was a good man.”
They stood grouped around her, furtively awkward, suddenly self-conscious, and therefore very near to shame. She had turned and was bending over Paul Brent, when Lazare Ledoux, rocking on his heels, shot out a malignant and accusing hand.
“The fellow is a Boche.”
She straightened up and faced Ledoux.
“It is a lie.”
He grimaced at her.
“I say he is a Boche. And you—a Frenchwoman—have given yourself to a Boche.”
Manon did not move. Her eyes looked straight at Ledoux.