On Monday morning I leave.

On Monday night I speak to the people in Manchester." She listened to him very much as a prisoner at the bar might listen to a judge who reasons before he pronounces sentence, and her face became as the face of that prisoner might become, who detects some leniency of tone, some softening of manner, on the part of the arbiter of his fate.
She ceased to tremble, her lips relaxed, her eyes grew softer and softer.

She came a step nearer, resting her finger-tips upon a little table, her body leaning towards him.

He had a queer vision of her for a moment--no longer the prophetess, a touch of the Delilah in the soft sweetness of her eyes.
"Oh, forgive me!" she begged.

"I was foolish.