Another silence. Then the wilful, passionate young voice broke out again:
"No! you are not dead ... you are not dead! You are only sleeping...."
Sophy started as though from a sort of sleep.
"We must go," she said. "I'd forgotten...."
She turned and began walking rapidly away from him.
He caught her up in a stride.
"You break my life like a rotten twig," he said. "And go to roast chestnuts for your son."
The anguish of bitterness in his voice kept his words from absurdity.
"Don't say such things ... don't say such things," Sophy murmured, walking faster and faster. He kept beside her, implacable in the smarting novelty of defeated love and will.
"Your face is so beautiful and gentle.... Who would have thought you could be so hard ... like flint?"