This afternoon I took her out with me, and spoke as
kindly as I could; if she isn't better for it, she surely can't be
worse, and in any case I don't know what else to do. Look, Clara,
you and I are going to do what we can for these children; we're not
going to give up the work now we've begun it. Mustn't all of us who
are poor stand together and help one another? We have to fight
against the rich world that's always crushing us down, down--
whether it means to or not. Those people enjoy their lives. Well, I
shall find _my_ enjoyment in defying them to make me despair? But I
can't do without your help. I didn't feel very cheerful as I sat
here a while ago, before you came down; I was almost afraid to go
upstairs, lest the sight of what you were suffering should be too
much for me. Am I to ask a kindness of you and be refused, Clara?'
It was not the first time that she had experienced the constraining
power of his words when he was moved with passionate earnestness.
Her desire to escape was due to a fear of yielding, of suffering her
egotism to fail before a stronger will.
'Let me go,' she said, whilst he held her arm. 'I feel too ill to
talk longer.
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