“Father’s photograph! She was in here—she came in here to do that! And she loves that photograph. She loves it!”
“Hush, Signorina! Don’t, Signorina—don’t!”
“We must do something! We must—”
He made her sit down. He stood by her.
“What shall we do, Gaspare? What shall we do?”
She looked up at him, demanding counsel. She put out her hands again and touched his arm. His Padroncina—she at least still loved, still trusted him.
“Signorina,” he said, “we can’t do anything.”
His voice was fatalistic.
“But—what is it? Is—is—”
A frightful question was trembling on her lips. She looked again at the fragments of card-board in her hand, at the broken frame on the table.