“Oh, I don’t blame her,” replied Mrs. Hart; “only—only—it was a little hard to be denied.”
“Have you any idea what it is that she is writing?”
“Not the remotest.”
“Perhaps it is an explanation of her conduct today in court.”
“Perhaps,”
Mr. Flint said, “Well, Mr. Romer, the bright plans that we were making last night have been knocked in the head, haven’t they? But I won’t believe that there isn’t some way out of our troubles, in spite of all. It isn’t seriously possible that she’ll be sentenced to prison, is it?”
“As I was suggesting to Mr. Hetzel, a while ago, her friends might claim that she’s insane.”
“Well, insane she must be, in point of fact. A lady like Mrs. Ripley—to plead guilty of murder—why, of course, she’s insane. It’s absurd on its face.”
“You don’t any of you happen to be posted on the circumstances of the case, do you?” Romer asked. “I mean her side of the story. I’m familiar with the other side myself.”
“I know absolutely nothing about it,” said Mr. Flint.