You mean—because of you?—Rhoda, look at me.
Rhoda avoids her aunt's gaze; Mrs. Beeler draws down the girl's face and gazes at it.
Is there anything—that I don't know—between you and him?
Rhoda.
I—I must go away.—I ought to have gone before.
Mrs. Beeler.
My child, this—this troubles me very much. He is different from other men, and you—and you—
Rhoda.
With passion.
Say it, say it! What am I?