“You know what it is!” she said.
“I don’t know.”
“Monsieur Emile!”
Her voice was full of reproach.
“Vere, I am telling you the truth,” he said, earnestly. “If there is anything seriously troubling your mother I do not know what it is. She has sorrows, of course. You know that.”
“This is something fresh,” the girl said. She thrust forward her little chin decisively. “This is something new.”
“It cannot be that,” Artois said to himself. “It cannot be that.”
To Vere he said: “Sleeplessness is terribly distressing.”
“Well—but only one night.”
“Perhaps there have been others.”