“Have you thought what kind of—of work would be best for you?” Sidney asked. The “work” stuck in his throat, and he seemed to himself brutal in his way of uttering it. But he was glad when he had put the question thus directly; one at least of his resolves was carried out.
“I know I’ve no right to choose, when there’s necessity,” she answered, in a very low tone. “Most women would naturally think of needlework; but I know so little of it; I scarcely ever did any. If I could—I might perhaps do that at home, and I feel—if I could only avoid—if I could only be spared going among strangers"
Her faltering voice sank lower and lower; she seemed as if she would have hidden her face even under its veil.
“I feel sure you will have no difficulty,” Sidney hastened to reply, his own voice unsteady. “Certainly you can get work at home. Why do you trouble yourself with the thought of going among strangers? There’ll never be the least need for that; I’m sure there won’t. Haven’t you spoken about it to your father?”
