“Miss Pellissier,” he said, “I don’t understand this change in you. Have you anything to ask me?” Ann Veronica readjusted her mind hastily. He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it struck the child and the grown-up impartially. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him. She suspected that he would take a mistress just as soon as they returned to Florence. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. That had shut him up for a while.
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