"But what was it you did--really did, Nicky?"
"You've read the letters, Mother."
Nicky's adolescence seemed to die and pass from him there and then; and she saw a stubborn, hard virility that frightened and repelled her, forcing her to believe that it might have really happened.
To Frances the awfulness of it was beyond belief. And the pathos of her belief in Nicky was unbearable to Anthony. There were the letters.
"I think, dear," Anthony said, "you'd better leave us."
"Mayn't I stay?" It was as if she thought that by staying she could bring Nicky's youth back to life again.
"No," said Anthony.
She went, and Nicky opened the door for her. His hard, tight man's face looked at her as if it had been she who had sinned and he who suffered, intolerably, for her sin. The click of the door as he shut it stabbed her.
"It's a damnable business, father. We'd better not talk about it."
But Anthony would talk about it. And when he had done talking all that Nicky had to say was: "You know as well as I do that these things happen."