“Is he? A sudden change, a new plan. He talked to me last night. He was out at Johntown.”
“It’s about time you thought about me a little.”
“I think about you fifty times a day, Connie.”
“Call it fifty.”
Conway gathered into his unspecified vagueness and sat distraught in his chair, or he arose and stepped lightly about the room, moving a curtain here or drawing a bowl into the light of the setting sun, closing a shutter, pushing the chair of the blue brocade into the kindest manifestation of the light.
“What’s the good of fifty? What kind of fifty.”
“I think about you every time I think at all.”
“If you marry Albert I’ll go off and never come back. This town, it’ll never see a sight of me again.”
“I wouldn’t want you to go.”