"What's the matter?" she laughed. "It's me, not a wax image in a shop."
Roger kissed her again. "I beg your pardon, Princess, but I'm all wrought up. I never want to have another afternoon like this one."
While Anne put the finishing touches to dinner, Roger told her of Angelo Sabatini. Anne made no comment until, the dinner served, they faced each other across the little table.
"But he's scarcely human now," Roger repeated. "A year of those granite walls—and he'll be a beast indeed."
Anne shivered. Roger had drawn the man very vividly, hunched on the cot, his thick neck, his round, flat head.
"If he'd only stopped to think," she said, "he must have seen that you can't go round burning property and murdering people."
"No, he wouldn't have seen it. As Wainwright says," Roger spoke bitterly, "the average working man's mind is untrained. He doesn't think. He's too busy getting food and clothes."
Anne thought of her father, his servile acceptance of rules and orders. His ever-haunting fear of losing his job, of a rainy day.
"I think Mr. Wainwright's right, don't you? The average person does not think."
"Then he's got to be made to think," Roger said with such sudden vehemence that Anne started. "It's not because he doesn't want to think. He hasn't got time to think. And he realizes the uselessness of thinking when he can't do anything with his thoughts."