"No, dear; do give me leave, now, to do that first."
"Humph, no; not first; . . . maybe afterwards. . . . I want to hear what kind of a man you are. . . . Ah, I am sure it is dreadful."
It hurt me that she should believe the worst of me; I was afraid of thrusting her away entirely, and I could not endure the misgivings she had as to my way of life. I would clear myself in her eyes, make myself worthy of her, show her that she was sitting at the side of a person almost angelically disposed. Why, bless me, I could count my falls up to date on my fingers. I related—related all—and I only related truth. I made out nothing any worse than it was; it was not my intention to rouse her compassion. I told her also that I had stolen five shillings one evening. She sat and listened, with open mouth, pale, frightened, her shining eyes completely bewildered. I desired to make it good again, to disperse the sad impression I had made, and I pulled myself up.
"Well, it is all over now!" I said; "there can be no talk of such a thing happening again; I am saved now. . . ."
