"Yes, I should, because there's no sense in it. Is she so fascinating that you must follow her all that way?" Mrs. Morel was bitterly sarcastic. She sat still, with averted face, stroking with a rhythmic, jerked movement the black sateen of her apron. It was a movement that hurt Paul to see.
"I do like her," he said, "but——"
"Like her!" said Mrs. Morel, in the same biting tones. "It seems to me you like nothing and nobody else. There's neither Annie, nor me, nor anyone now for you."
"What nonsense, mother—you know I don't love her—I—I tell you I don't love her—she doesn't even walk with my arm, because I don't want her to."
"Then why do you fly to her so often!"
"I do like to talk to her—I never said I didn't. But I don't love her."
"Is there nobody else to talk to?"
"Not about the things we talk of. There's lots of things that you're not interested in, that——"
"What things?"