His words were like touches, and they distressed her into movement, into a desire to run from him.
"I'm going in," she said.
"Not yet."
"I must."
He was hovering on the edge of sentences which had their risk: she could feel that he wished to claim her but dared not, lest she should refuse his claim. He found a miserable kind of safety in staying on the brink, yet he made one venture.
"There are things we've got to talk about."
"But not tonight."
"You'll say that every night."
"There's never really any need to talk about anything," she said.
He stammered, "But—you're going to marry me. I must make—make arrangements."