Jane: Of course I know.
Martin: Will you tell me?
Jane: That's enough. (And she tried to break off the thread.)
Martin: Ah, but you mustn't keep your wisdom to yourself. Give me the key, dear Jane.
Jane: The key?
Martin: Because how else can the clouds which overshadow our stories be cleared away? How else can we allay our doubts and our confusions and our sorrows if you who are wise, and see motives so clearly, will not give us the key? Why did I sigh, Jane? And why does Gillian sigh? And, oh, Jane, why are you sighing? Do you know?
Jane: Of course I know.
Martin: And won't you give me the key?
Jane: That's quite enough.
And this time she broke off the thread. And she put the needle in and out of the pinked flannel in her housewife, and she tucked the thimble in its place. And then she felt in a little pocket where something clinked against her scissors, and Martin watched her. And she took it out and put it in his hand. And his hand tightened again over hers and he said gravely, "Is it a needle?"