He was finding it impossible to pass off his departure as a common, impersonal blow. He was too near to her to do more than repeat "Poor little Dot. Poor little Dot."
"And then what?" she demanded wearily.
"What do you mean?"
"You're my whole life, that's all. I'd die for you right now if you said so. I'd get a knife and kill myself. You can't leave me here."
Her tone frightened him.
"These things happen," he said evenly.
"Then I'm going with you." Tears were streaming down her checks. Her mouth was trembling in an ecstasy of grief and fear.
"Sweet," he muttered sentimentally, "sweet little girl. Don't you see we'd just be putting off what's bound to happen? I'll be going to France in a few months—"
She leaned away from him and clinching her fists lifted her face toward the sky.
"I want to die," she said, as if moulding each word carefully in her heart.