She had her first real scorn of him. He was afraid of her, and she despised him for it, yet she saw that she must keep him so. She could hardly bring herself to say, "Do what you like," but having said it, she could add, with vehemence, "Don't bother me! I'm busy."
"But—" he said, and looked down: and now she seemed to be caught in his shame, a partner, and she had to wait for what he tried to say.
He looked up, saying, "You promised."
"Oh, I know."
She did not go. Perhaps people lying side by side in their graves would talk to each other like this, in voices muffled by their coffins and inarticulate because of fleshless lips, with words that had no meaning now that life, which made them, was done. And again she felt that she and George were moles, burrowing in the earth, scratching, groping for something blindly.
She brought her hands together and shook them.
"If only one could see!" she said aloud.
"What is it?"
"I feel as if I'm in a dark room."
"It's a dark night," he said, and touched her wrist. "When shall I see you again? Tomorrow?"