“Nothing.”
“Is it”—Miss Gerald got back to where she had been before—“the sense of awful responsibility,” with slight sarcasm, “that has turned your brain?”
“I’m not crazy.”
“No?” She remembered that most people in asylums say that.
“Though I may be in a matter of three weeks,” Bob added, more to himself than to her.
“Why three weeks?”
“Well, if I don’t—just shouldn’t happen to go crazy during that time, I’ll be all right, after that.”
“Why do you allow a specified period for your mental deterioration?”
“I didn’t allow it.”
“Who did?”