"Because I'm a white man, because she's a little girl who came from my country and can't hold her own here, because she was sick and chilled and starving. Do you see now?"
"No, but it doesn't matter. I'm not the keeper of your conscience, Mr.
Lindsay," she countered, with hard lightness.
"You're judging me just the same."
Her eyes attacked him. "Am I?"
"Yes." The level gaze of the man met hers calmly. "What have I done that you don't like?"
She lost some of her debonair insolence that expressed itself in indifference.
"I'd ask that if I were you," she cried scornfully. "Can you tell me that this—friend of yours—is a good girl?"
"I think so. She's been up against it. Whatever she may have done she's been forced to do."
"Excuses," she murmured.
"If you'd ever known what it was to be starving—"