She half expected that Bosio would rise, and come to her and comfort her, perhaps, as she hid her face in her hands, shivering in fear of herself and shaking a little with the convulsive sob that was so near.
But Bosio did not move from his seat.

He sat quite still, staring at the fire.

He was not a physical coward, but, morally speaking, he was terrified and stunned by what he had understood her to say.

Probably no man of any great strength of character, however bad, could have lived the life he had led in that house for many years, dominated by such a woman as Matilde Macomer.

And now his weakness showed itself, to himself and to her, in what he felt, and in what he did, respectively.