"I have too many feelings to trust half of them!" I tried to laugh.
"Have you ever had one, I wonder, like mine, about Jim? Dare I speak to you of this?"
"Why not?"
"Well—I wouldn't dare to his mother. Or even to the old man."
"You must speak now, please, Mr. Curtis, to me!"
"It's this; have you ever had the feeling that Jim may be alive?"
We were standing. I caught at the back of a chair. Things whirled for an instant. Then I gathered my wits together. "I haven't let myself feel it," I said. "And yet, in a way, I always feel it. I mean, I seem to feel—his thoughts round us. But that's because we speak and think of him almost every moment of the day, his father and mother and I. There can be no doubt—can there?"
"Others have come back from the dead since this war. Why not Jim Beckett?"
"They said they had—found his body."
"Oh, they said! Germans say a lot of things. But for the Lord's sake, Miss O'Malley, don't let's upset those poor old people with any such hope. I've only my feeling—and other people's stories of escape—to go upon. I spoke to you, because I guess you've got a strong soul, and can stand shocks. Besides, you told me I must speak. I had to obey."