“_Il a honte de moi—il a honte, Dieu le pardonne!_” Florentine Vivier went on, never moving her eyes. “She’s asking for something, in her language. I used to know a few words,” said Miss Pynsent, stroking down the bed very nervously. “Who is that woman? what does she want?” Hyacinth broke out again, his small, clear voice ringing over the dreary room. “She wants you to come near her, she wants to kiss you, sir,” said Mrs. Bowerbank, as if it were more than he deserved. “I won’t kiss her; Pinnie says she stole a watch!” the child answered with resolution. “Oh, you dreadful—how could you ever?” cried Pinnie, blushing all over and starting out of her chair. It was partly Amanda’s agitation perhaps, which by the jolt it administered gave an impulse to the sick woman, and partly the penetrating and expressive tone in which Hyacinth announced his repugnance: at any rate Florentine, in the most unexpected and violent manner, jerked herself up from her pillow and, with dilated eyes and protesting hands, shrieked out, “_Ah quelle infamie!_ I never stole a watch, I never stole anything—anything! _Ah par exemple!_” Then she fell back sobbing with the passion that had given her a moment’s strength. “I’m sure you needn’t put more on her than she has by rights,” said Mrs. Bowerbank with dignity to the dressmaker, and laid a large red hand on 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 on the one for contrition and 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 the unfortunate’s hand again, protested with an almost equal passion (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’s 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 for putting her in such a state, so we’ll just pass out again.” “I’m very sorry I made you cry. And you must pardon Pinnie—I asked her so many questions.”