But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent. Little by little Sebastian gave to her the story of how she came to be abducted. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. She said you HAD some money. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. Ennison seemed to feel already the shadow of tragedy approaching. A feeling of inexplicable awe crept over the carpenter as the sounds died away.
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