Winnie Verloc turning about held him by both arms, facing him under the falling mist in the darkness and solitude of Brett Place, in which all sounds of life seemed lost as if in a triangular well of asphalt and bricks, of blind houses and unfeeling stones.
"No; I didn't know," he declared, with a sort of flabby stupidity, whose comical aspect was lost upon a woman haunted by the fear of the gallows, "but I do now.

I--I understand," he floundered on, his mind speculating as to what sort of atrocities Verloc could have practised under the sleepy, placid appearances of his married estate.

It was positively awful.

"I understand," he repeated, and then by a sudden inspiration uttered an--"Unhappy woman!" of lofty commiseration instead of the more familiar "Poor darling!" of his usual practice.

This was no usual case.
He felt conscious of something abnormal going on, while he never lost sight of the greatness of the stake.