“Well?”
“You needn’t.”
Miriam held back her thoughts. Nothing mattered but to sit there holding back thought and feeling and argument, if only she could without getting angry.... There was something here, something decisive. This was what she had been born for, if only she could hold on. She felt very old. No more happiness ... the little house they sat in was a mockery, a fiendish contrivance to hide agony. There was nothing in these little houses in themselves, just indifference hiding miseries.
She sat forward conversationally. A rain of tears was coming down her companion’s cheeks. To hold on ... hold on ... not to think or feel glad or sorry ... it would be impudent to feel anything ... to hold on if the tears went on for an hour ... treating them as if they were part of a conversation.
“You understand me?”
“Of course.”
“You are the only one.”
The relieved voice ... steady, as she had known it correcting her in her babyhood.
“I should be better if I could be more with you ...” oh Lord ... impossible.
“You must be with me as much as you like.”