"Did you?" Roger withdrew his smile, resentful of her assurance. He felt that Katya caught his feeling, but she did not apologize. Instead she offered him one of her vile cigarettes. Roger refused.
"They are beastly, but I can't smoke anything else any more." She inhaled and the cigarette was gone in a few deep breaths. "But I'm really glad you didn't come any sooner. It means you've thought it out carefully. We're overloaded now with enthusiasm, twigs not strong enough to keep the pot boiling. Hear them crackling?" Her frowsy black head jerked toward the voices of the two men talking to Tom. "Poor Tom. He'll have to pour water on them and then—two more vanity-wounded enemies."
Katya's voice, husky from too much loud speech-making and the vile cigarettes, had unexpected soft spots, rest places, quiet corners of pity in the roar of her faith. Roger felt that the woman might have many of these hidden places, little corners of pity and gentleness, and forgot his resentment.
"I'll promise not to crackle."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-nine. Almost thirty."
"You're married, aren't you?"
"Yes."
Katya lit another cigarette. "Got any ideas?"
"No." Roger began to feel like a small boy again.