"You were just going to."
"No, I wasn't. I don't think you are a baby. I cry sometimes."
"Do you?" There was a thin note of amazement in his voice. "What do you cry for?"
"Oh, lots of things. What do you?"
"For mummy—it's so cold in bed without mummy."
"Do you sleep with mummy, then?" she asked, and she slid a warm arm around his sturdy little neck.
"Yes—always. Mummy's so warm and she lies so tight. Your arm's warm—I like your arm." He felt it with his fingers. "What's that?" he asked suddenly.
"What's what?" said Sally.
"Something wet fell on the back of my hand. Why, it's you—it's you. You're crying. Aren't you? You're crying. Oh, I wonder if you're a baby. I don't see why you should be, if you don't think I am. Why are you crying?"
"I don't know."