She doesn't want to give up. She wants to keep rubbing him warm, doing all she can to bring life back into his small bones. But he's dead. He's dead, she killed him.

"I must have been followed," she whispers to herself, "someone must have found out, told the old devil- they must have found him. Did this- oh god," her hands find their way in front of her face.

"They killed him. Killed him. An' it's all my fault- I should have gone to the Maylies sooner, reached out to the Brownlows- never taken him back to the bloody den! He's dead, he's dead, and Fagin'll kill me next!" Panic seizes at her heart and throat.