I thereupon put the matter in the right view before her, in the

friendliest and most comforting words I could find. My principles, in

regard to the other sex, are, as you may have noticed, very severe. But

somehow or other, when I come face to face with the women, my practice

(I own) is not conformable.

"Mr. Franklin is very kind and considerate. Please to thank him." That

was all the answer she made me.

My daughter had already noticed that Rosanna went about her work like

a woman in a dream. I now added to this observation, that she also

listened and spoke like a woman in a dream. I doubted if her mind was in

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a fit condition to take in what I had said to her.

"Are you quite sure, Rosanna, that you understand me?" I asked.

"Quite sure."

She echoed me, not like a living woman, but like a creature moved by

machinery. She went on sweeping all the time. I took away the broom as

gently and as kindly as I could.

"Come, come, my girl!" I said, "this is not like yourself. You have got

something on your mind. I'm your friend--and I'll stand your friend,

even if you have done wrong. Make a clean breast of it, Rosanna--make a

clean breast of it!"

The time had been, when my speaking to her in that way would have

brought the tears into her eyes. I could see no change in them now.

"Yes," she said, "I'll make a clean breast of it."

"To my lady?" I asked.

"No."

"To Mr. Franklin?"

"Yes; to Mr. Franklin."

I hardly knew what to say to that. She was in no condition to understand

the caution against speaking to him in private, which Mr. Franklin had

directed me to give her. Feeling my way, little by little, I only told

her Mr. Franklin had gone out for a walk.

"It doesn't matter," she answered. "I shan't trouble Mr. Franklin,

to-day."

"Why not speak to my lady?" I said. "The way to relieve your mind is to

speak to the merciful and Christian mistress who has always been kind to

you."

She looked at me for a moment with a grave and steady attention, as if

she was fixing what I said in her mind. Then she took the broom out of

my hands and moved off with it slowly, a little way down the corridor.

"No," she said, going on with her sweeping, and speaking to herself; "I

know a better way of relieving my mind than that."

"What is it?"

"Please to let me go on with my work."

Penelope followed her, and offered to help her.

She answered, "No. I want to do my work. Thank you, Penelope." She

looked round at me. "Thank you, Mr. Betteredge."




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