"Talk of something else," she said, whispering through her teeth.
"I shall lose myself if you talk of that."

Every vestige of the gentler thoughts which had filled her mind
hardly a minute since seemed to be swept from it now. It was
evident that the impression left by Mrs. Fairlie's kindness was
not, as I had supposed, the only strong impression on her memory.
With the grateful remembrance of her school-days at Limmeridge,
there existed the vindictive remembrance of the wrong inflicted on
her by her confinement in the Asylum. Who had done that wrong?
Could it really be her mother?

It was hard to give up pursuing the inquiry to that final point,
but I forced myself to abandon all idea of continuing it. Seeing
her as I saw her now, it would have been cruel to think of
anything but the necessity and the humanity of restoring her
composure.

"I will talk of nothing to distress you," I said soothingly.

"You want something," she answered sharply and suspiciously.
"Don't look at me like that. Speak to me--tell me what you want."

"I only want you to quiet yourself, and when you are calmer, to
think over what I have said."

"Said?" She paused--twisted the cloth in her hands, back-wards and
forwards, and whispered to herself, "What is it he said?" She
turned again towards me, and shook her head impatiently. "Why