"He's a murderer! he's a murderer! he's a murderer! He has been the death of Rosanna Spearman!" She screamed that answer out at the top of her voice.

One or two of the people at work in the grounds near us looked up--saw it was Limping Lucy--knew what to expect from that quarter--and looked away again.
"He has been the death of Rosanna Spearman ?" I repeated.

"What makes you say that, Lucy ?" "What do you care?
What does any man care?
Oh! if she had only thought of the men as I think, she might have been living now!" "She always thought kindly of ME, poor soul," I said; "and, to the best of my ability, I always tried to act kindly by HER." I spoke those words in as comforting a manner as I could.

The truth is, I hadn't the heart to irritate the girl by another of my smart replies.
I had only noticed her temper at first.

I noticed her wretchedness now--and wretchedness is not uncommonly insolent, you will find, in humble life.