Even in those three words her accent was unmistakably cockney—as unmistakably cockney as the coarse-featured, snub-nosed, common little face. In happier, freer conditions she would have done her skimpy hair up in patent curlers and worn a hat with a purple feather, and joined heartily in the raucous merriment of her comrades at the pickle-factory. Here, however, she was lying, poor little devil, thought Risca, warped from childhood by the ascetic ideal, and wrecked body and spirit by unutterable cruelty. In her eyes flickered the patient apprehension of the ill-treated dog.
“I hope you will soon get better,” he said, with sickening knowledge of that which lay hidden beneath the rough bedclothes.
“Yes, sir,” said Unity.
“It 's chiefly her nerves now,” said the matron. “She hollers out of nights, so she can't be put into the dormitory.”
“Do you like the things I send you?” asked John.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anything special you'd like to have?”
“No, sir.”
But he caught a certain wistfulness in her glance.
“She does n't want anything at all,” said the matron, and the girl's eyelids fluttered. “She's being spoiled too much as it is already.”