Yet I fancy that we who have been poor ourselves must be the best judges of the needs of the people. She was pleased and a little flattered by his interest and sympathy. She and Courtlaw drove homewards together. She finished the olive and looked up. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. You called yourself a murderess.
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