It looked so weary and impotent as if she had abdicated the uneven struggle with circumstances.
On they raced, down the slippery ribbon of road.
There was a bump and she fell towards him. He stretched out his arm and held her firm and secure. He wanted her to feel that it was a rampart and not an insidious outpost of passion quick to take advantage.
"Let me kiss you once, for God's sake," his voice was harsh.
She turned her face towards him. The passing lamp showed her resigned, pitying, tender.
"Don't look like that," he said—sharp with the things he had wanted.
"I'm sorry," her voice was velvety and comforting.
Yet another lamp, there was a faint smile on her lips—breathed as it were from him. He huddled into his corner, hurt by her compassion.
"I hate to see the moon," she said, "cynical and prying—an eavesdropper of a moon."
Again a light gave him a fleeting vision of her—photographed on to his soul.