It was an impulse. Imagine her, putting herself to all this delay and inconvenience for a young wastrel she did not know and who, the moment he got on his feet, would doubtless pass out of her life without so much as Thank you! And it was ten to one that she would not comprehend the ingratitude. Don't lay it all to the boy. “Don’t you care for Mr. That’s the fact about them. She had, it was true, accepted doubtfully the pen he had offered. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once.
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