“No?”
“No.”
Esther, huddled into a shawl, sat down before the table. The room, formerly the photographer’s gallery, was lighted by an oil lamp. Everything bore witness to the direst poverty.
“Have they taken away the camera?” asked Roberto.
“Yes. This morning. I have my money locked in this chest. What would you advise me to do, Roberto?”
Roberto strode up and down the room with his eyes fixed upon the floor. All at once he drew up before Esther.
“Do you wish me to be perfectly frank with you?”
“Yes. Perfectly. Just as you’d speak to a good friend.”
“Very well, then. I believe that what you ought to do is—. I don’t know whether the advice will strike you as brutal....”
“Go on....”