he added in a softened voice.

Mrs Verloc's mind got hold of that declaration with morbid tenacity. The
man who had taken Stevie out from under her very eyes to murder him in a
locality whose name was at the moment not present to her memory would not
allow her go out. Of course he wouldn't.

Now he had murdered Stevie he would never let her go. He would want to
keep her for nothing. And on this characteristic reasoning, having all
the force of insane logic, Mrs Verloc's disconnected wits went to work
practically. She could slip by him, open the door, run out. But he
would dash out after her, seize her round the body, drag her back into
the shop. She could scratch, kick, and bite--and stab too; but for
stabbing she wanted a knife. Mrs Verloc sat still under her black veil,
in her own house, like a masked and mysterious visitor of impenetrable
intentions.

Mr Verloc's magnanimity was not more than human. She had exasperated him
at last.

"Can't you say something? You have your own dodges for vexing a man. Oh
yes! I know your deaf-and-dumb trick. I've seen you at it before
to-day. But just now it won't do. And to begin with, take this damned
thing off. One can't tell whether one is talking to a dummy or to a live
woman."

He advanced, and stretching out his hand, dragged the veil off, unmasking
a still, unreadable face, against which his nervous exasperation was
shattered like a glass bubble flung against a rock. "That's better," he
said, to cover his momentary uneasiness, and retreated back to his old
station by the mantelpiece. It never entered his head that his wife
could give him up. He felt a little ashamed of himself, for he was fond
and generous. What could he do? Everything had been said already. He
protested vehemently.

"By heavens! You know that I hunted high and low. I ran the risk of
giving myself away to find somebody for that accursed job. And I tell
you again I couldn't find anyone crazy enough or hungry enough. What do
you take me for--a murderer, or what? The boy is gone. Do you think I
wanted him to blow himself up? He's gone. His troubles are over. Ours
are just going to begin, I tell you, precisely because he did blow
himself. I don't blame you. But just try to understand that it was a
pure accident; as much an accident as if he had been run over by a 'bus
while crossing the street."

His generosity was not infinite, because he was a human being--and not a
mons