"If you mean that I was fond of her--yes, I was. You know, Emily
was a selfish old woman in her way. She was very generous, but
she always wanted a return. She never let people forget what she
had done for them--and, that way she missed love. Don't think
she ever realized it, though, or felt the lack of it. Hope not,
anyway. I was on a different footing. I took my stand from the
first. 'So many pounds a year I'm worth to you. Well and good.
But not a penny piece besides--not a pair of gloves, nor a
theatre ticket.' She didn't understand--was very offended
sometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It wasn't that--but I
couldn't explain. Anyway, I kept my self-respect. And so, out
of the whole bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself to
be fond of her. I watched over her. I guarded her from the lot
of them, and then a glib-tongued scoundrel comes along, and pooh!
all my years of devotion go for nothing."
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
"I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel.
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