“How long since they gave up?”
“Three years.”
“And how have you managed since?”
“Just managed along—get some jobs in the summer—just managed along.”
“You mustn’t mind Father, sir. Why don’t you tell the gentleman? Just managed along, as you see, sir—everything’s gone now.”
She passed her hand over her mouth, and the sound of her whisper was more intimate than ever:
“Dreadful things we’ve suffered in this room, sir; dreadful! I don’t like to speak of ’em, if you’ll believe me.”
And, with that almost soundless whisper, that stealthy movement of her hand before her mouth, all those things she spoke of seemed to be happening in their deadly privacy to those two old people behind their close-shut door.
There was a silence; my dog spoke with his eyes: “Master, we have been here long enough; I smell no food; there is no fire!”
“You must feel the cold dreadfully this weather?”