Don’t say anything, she thought to herself, say nothing more, Martin. This gloom was impossible. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. That day Gerald had brought her to this excessively careful house, where she had felt very much alone and very unlike herself. Nothing, in short, portable or valuable was left. Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified. "Can't you see? I can't hurt her, if … if she cares! I can't tell her I'm a madman as well as a thief!… What a fool! What a fool!" A thief. F. Nothing else was put in their place, and they remained sotto voce, as it were, in his mind. Jack, however, had an expedient for mastering this difficulty.
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