“You are really a good Samaritan,” she declared. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. She tightened her bandage and sat back, biting her lip. Hot coffee and cakes were sent in to them in the morning by some intelligent sympathizer, or she would have starved all day. Miss Moffatt, the history and moral instruction mistress, was particularly explicit upon this score, and they all agreed in indicating contempt and pity for girls whose minds ran on such matters, and who betrayed it in their conversation or dress or bearing.
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