"What are you?" said Redlaw, pausing, with his hand upon the broken
stair-rail.
"What do you think I am?" she answered, showing him her face again.
He looked upon the ruined Temple of God, so lately made, so soon
disfigured; and something, which was not compassion - for the
springs in which a true compassion for such miseries has its rise,
were dried up in his breast - but which was nearer to it, for the
moment, than any feeling that had lately struggled into the
darkening, but not yet wholly darkened, night of his mind - mingled
a touch of softness with his next words.
"I am come here to give relief, if I can," he said. "Are you
thinking of any wrong?"
She frowned at him, and then laughed; and then her laugh prolonged
itself into a shivering sigh, as she dropped her head again, and
hid her fingers in her hair.
"Are you thinking of a wrong?" he asked once more.
"I am thinking of my life," she said, with a monetary look at him.
He had a perception that she was one of many, and that he saw the
type of thousands, when he saw her, drooping at his feet.
"What are your parents?" he demanded.
"I had a good home once. My father was a gardener, far away, in
the country."
"Is he dead?"
"He's dead to me. All such things are dead to me. You a
gentleman, and not know that!" She raised her eyes again, and
laughed at him.
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