Bella looked to Mrs. Boffin’s face for comment on, or explanation of, this stormy humour in her husband, but none was there. An anxious and a distressed observation of her own face was all she could read in it. When they were left alone together⁠—which was not until noon, for Mr. Boffin sat long in his easy-chair, by turns jogging up and down the breakfast-room, clenching his fist and muttering⁠—Bella, in consternation, asked her what had happened, what was wrong? “I am forbidden to speak to you about it, Bella dear; I mustn’t tell you,” was all the answer she could get. And still, whenever, in her wonder and dismay, she raised her eyes to Mrs. Boffin’s face, she saw in it the same anxious and distressed observation of her own.