Again she raised her eyes and steadily regarded him.
"To whom, Dimsdale ?" she asked.
"My lady--" the old man murmured unwillingly.
"To me ?" she questioned in a quiet, unmoved voice.

"Why are you afraid of that ?" Dimsdale hesitated.
"Tell me," she said.

But again her eyes had sunk to the fire.

She seemed as one not vitally interested, as one whose thoughts were elsewhere.
Reluctantly Dimsdale made answer: "He's been cutting your ladyship's portrait into strips and burning 'em in the study fire.

It was dreadful to see him, so intent like and quiet.