He continued to look from the window.
“I knew he’d take it awfully hard,” he said, in a voice that sounded strained, “but I didn’t think he’d give up so completely; he’s—”
Then she screamed, reaching forth and touching his hand.
“You’re not breaking it to me that he’s dead! You’re not telling me that he’s dead!”
He turned from the window at that, and was shocked at her face and the way that her hands were twisting.
“I know he’s dead!” she screamed again, and he sprang forward and caught her in his arms as she sank down there at his knees.
“He is not dead!” he told her forcefully; “honestly, he is not dead! But he’s in a bad way, and with it all just as it is, I don’t know what to do about you. If you don’t care, why, as I said before, it’s not our funeral; but if you do care, I—well, I—”
“Oh, Jack, can I go to him? I must go to him! Can’t you take me to him?”
She writhed in his arms as if she also was become a maniac.
“Do you really want to go to him? Do you know what that means? It means no more backing out, now or never.”