"Then why don't you tell me what you think about?"
"Would you be interested?" She smiled at the thought of telling him with what anxiety she looked for Zebedee, with what anger she blamed him for neglect, with what increase she loved him.
"Yes, I would. Now you're laughing. D'you think it funny? D'you think I can't read or write, or understand the way you speak?"
"George," she said, "I wish you wouldn't get so cross. I don't think any of those things."
"Never think about me at all, I suppose. Not worth it."
She answered slowly, "Yes, you are," and he grunted a mockery of thanks.
It was some time before he threw out two words of accusation. "You're different."
"Different?"
"That's what I said. You never answer straight."
"Don't I?"