"I see! It was because she didn't dream that this was the place I lived in." It was the sort of heartless, torturing questioning which was once the crudest weapon of the inquisition.

With all her heart she fought to raise her voice above the whisper whose very sound accused her, but could not.

She was condemned to that voice as the man bound in nightmare is condemned to walk slowly, slowly, though the terrible danger is racing toward him, and the safety which he must reach lies only a dozen steps, a dozen mortal steps away.
She said in that voice: "No; of course she didn't dream it." "And you, Jack, had her interests at heart--her best interests, poor girl, and didn't tell her ?" Her hands went out to him in mute appeal.
"Please, Pierre--don't!" "Is something troubling you, Jack ?" "You are breaking my heart." "Why, by no means! Let's sit here calmly and chat about the girl with the yellow hair.

To begin with--she's rather pleasant to look at, don't you think ?" "I suppose she is." "Hm! Rather poor taste not to be sure of it.

Well, let it go.