"I guess we’d better go in," she said. "We’re getting wet; and I’ve got to pack up my things."
To go home! She began for the first time to imagine her home-coming, to think of her future. This was all over; she would never get another such job, never again be in a house like this, never again have a chance like this!
She began to think of the kitchen, of the factory, of their suppers of tea and bread and margarine, of her mother, listless and hopeless—all of it hopeless—even Vincent. What could he ever do for her, even if he had the inclination? Who was there on earth who cared to do anything for her, who could give her in any way the things she craved? Panic overwhelmed her.
"Eddie!" she cried. "I—could!"
He was suddenly galvanized into life.
"Could?" he cried. "Could what?"
"If you want—I’ll marry you!"
His arms went around her, pressing her tightly against his coat. A smell of damp tweed and cigar-smoke filled her nostrils; she couldn’t see or move at all, her head was so buried in his clumsy embrace.
"Oh, my darling!" he cried. "Oh, Angelica, to think that I have to go now!"