Anna’s face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him. Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. “And children must we women bear— “Oh, damn!” she cried, as the hundred-and-first couplet or so presented itself in her unwilling brain. Perhaps that sealed letter was a form of confession, and thus relieved him on that score.
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