You cannot care for her. I know why. “I hope you have not come for that. In the second, she was wretchedly poor, and assailed by temptations of which you can form no idea. Don’t favour your father much, either, if it comes to that. “How can you know?” “I think—perhaps I am rather a cold-blooded person. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. But then—Oh! Madam, there are moments—moments of darkness, which overshadow a whole existence—in the lives of the poor houseless wretches who traverse the streets, when reason is well-nigh benighted; when the horrible promptings of despair can, alone, be listened to; and when vice itself assumes the aspect of virtue. “It was,” she admitted.
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