“I’m sure you needn’t put more on her than she has by rights,” said Mrs Bowerbank, with dignity, to the dressmaker, laying a large red hand upon the patient, to keep her in her place. “Mercy, more? I thought it so much less!” cried Miss Pynsent, convulsed with confusion and jerking herself, in a wild tremor, from the mother to the child, as if she wished to fling herself upon one for contrition and upon the other for revenge. “_Il a honte de moi—il a honte de moi!_” Florentine repeated, in the misery of her sobs, “_Dieu de bonté, quelle horreur!_” Miss Pynsent dropped on her knees beside the bed and, trying to possess herself of Florentine’s hand again, protested with a passion almost equal to that of the prisoner (she felt that her nerves had been screwed up to the snapping-point, and now they were all in shreds) that she hadn’t meant what she had told the child, that he hadn’t understood, that Florentine herself hadn’t understood, that she had only said she had been accused and meant that no one had ever believed it. The Frenchwoman paid no attention to her whatever, and Amanda buried her face and her embarrassment in the side of the hard little prison-bed, while, above the sound of their common lamentation, she heard the judicial tones of Mrs Bowerbank. “The child is delicate, you might well say! I’m disappointed in the effect—I was in hopes you’d hearten her up. The doctor’ll be down on _me_, of course; so we’ll just pass out again.” “I’m very sorry I made you cry. And you must excuse Pinnie—I asked her so many questions.”