"That's it," Norman said gleefully. "I've always wished I could find a hangman's daughter and kiss her somewhere in public—show the empty-headed, full-bellied gang how I despise them. Nina's done it for me."
Nina had taken a very passive part in all these proceedings. She had done what she was told to do, said what she was told to say, without question. How passive a part it had been none of us realized at the time. But that afternoon when I came back from the Tombs, I found her in earnest conversation with Guiseppe.
"Say," she said, after he had gone, "I want to talk to you."
But she found it hard to begin.
"What is it?" I encouraged her.
"The old man, Guiseppe, is a fool," she blurted out. "Says your friend married me."
"Well. That isn't foolish. He did marry you."
"Aw hell! Don't lie to me. Fine men like him don't marry girls they pick up in the street."
"Not very often," I admitted. "But Benson certainly married you."
She sighed profoundly, as though there was no hope of getting the truth in a world of men.