Again she was silent, and again her voice wavered as it rose.
"I have been thinking about—about how poor we are. Will it ever be better?"
"I cannot say. Don't think of it?"
"But I must think of it. I am trying to find a way out of it. Is there any way?"
"None that I know of."
Mariana half rose and sat down again.
"There is one," she said, "and I—"
"What do you mean?" Algarcife demanded, starting up.
Her voice came slowly.
"I mean that I am—that it is better—that I am—going away."