“Can you understand me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she murmured. Her voice was thin, far away, an evident effort.
“I saved your life.”
“I wish you had let me die.” Her reply was quick with feeling, and it thrilled Neale because it was a proof that he could stimulate or aggravate her mind.
“But I DID save you. Now you owe me something.”
“What?”
“Why, gratitude—enough to want to live, to try to help yourself.”
“No—no,” she whispered, and relapsed into the somber apathy.
Neale could scarcely elicit another word from her; then by way of change he held out different articles he had brought—scarfs, a shawl, a mirror—and made her look at them. Her own face in the mirror did not interest her. He tried to appeal to a girl’s vanity. She had none.
“Your hair is all tangled,” he said, bringing forth comb and brush. “Here, smooth it out.”