I took her and sat her on my knee and I prayed God bless her.
She hid her head on my bosom, and put her arms round my neck--and we
waited a little while in silence. The poor dead girl must have been at
the bottom of it, I think, with my daughter and with me. The Sergeant
went to the window, and stood there looking out. I thought it right to
thank him for considering us both in this way--and I did.
People in high life have all the luxuries to themselves--among others,
the luxury of indulging their feelings. People in low life have no such
privilege. Necessity, which spares our betters, has no pity on us. We
learn to put our feelings back into ourselves, and to jog on with our
duties as patiently as may be. I don't complain of this--I only notice
it. Penelope and I were ready for the Sergeant, as soon as the Sergeant
was ready on his side. Asked if she knew what had led her fellow-servant
to destroy herself, my daughter answered (as you will foresee) that it
was for love of Mr. Franklin Blake. Asked next, if she had mentioned
this notion of hers to any other person, Penelope answered, "I have not
mentioned it, for Rosanna's sake." I felt it necessary to add a word to
this.
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