"I don't want to. I like to hear the wind come howling across the moor and beat against the walls as if it had great wings. It does one's crying for one."
"Do you want to cry?"
"Yes."
"Now?"
"No."
"When, then?"
"Don't you?"
"Of course not. I swear instead." He shook her gently. "Tell me when you want to cry."
"Oh, just when the wind does it for me," she said sleepily.
"I'll never understand you."