She'd gone upstairs to offer him supper. It was late but she knew he hadn't eaten that day. "Mr. T?" she called out softly. When there was no answer she pushed open the door. It was dark inside, what little moonlight penetrated the smog could not pass through the grimey windows. He was curled up on his chair, asleep. His thin form seemed small and childlike in the large seat. Cautiously she moved closer. His skin seemed almost luminescent in the darkness. He was still beautiful she thought, just in a different way than before. He had been innocent then, filled with joy and life. Now he was efemeral and ghostlike, his dark eyes an intense contrast with his gaunt face. Even in sleep he did not appear to be peaceful, his mouth was twisted into a grimace of pain. He shifted on the chair and the fabric of his top fell away from his uppermost shoulder. Nellie gasped. Even in the dim light she could see the livid scars curling around from his back, criss-crossing one on top of another. Without thinking she reached out to touch them. He jolted awake as though she'd thrown a bucket of ice-water over him.
"What are you doing in here?" he demanded.
"I... I came to see if you wanted some supper."
"Mr. T, what happened to you?" She was still staring at the scars. He followed her gaze.
"I'd think that is obvious Mrs. Lovette."
"Why?" She left the question unfinished.
"Why did they whip me?"
"I don't know. I don't know why they did any of the things they did. Because they knew I was innocent perhaps."