"Then show me where or what it is," he challenged.
"I will," I said, with sudden conviction. "There's a reason for all this, and I'm going to find it out!"
He studied my face with his tired and unhappy young eyes as I sat there trying to fit the edges of the two broken stories together. It was not easy: it was like trying to piece together a shattered vase of cloisonné-work.
"And how will you find it out?" he was listlessly inquiring.
Instead of answering him, I looked up, fixed my eyes on him and asked another question.
"Tell me this: if there is a reason, do you still care for her?"
He resented the question, as I was afraid he would.
"What concern is that of yours?"
"If all this thing's a mistake, it's going to be some concern of yours," I told him.
He sat there in dead silence for a minute or two.