“What can it be? What can it be?”
She looked at him, followed his eyes. He had stared towards the writing-table, then at the floor near it. On the table lay a quantity of fragments of broken glass, and a silver photograph-frame bent, almost broken. On the floor was scattered a litter of card-board.
“She came in here! Madre was in here—”
She bent down to the carpet, picked up some of the bits of card-board, turned them over, looked at them. Then she began to tremble again.
“It’s father’s photograph!”
She was now utterly terrified.
“Oh, Gaspare! Oh, Gaspare!”
She began to sob.
“Hush, Signorina! Hush!”
He spoke almost sternly, bent down, collected the fragments of card-board from the floor, and put them into his pocket.