“You noticed me?”
“Yes.”
She leaned forward.
“Yes,” she repeated, “I noticed you because of all the faces I had looked into since morning yours was the first I felt I could trust.”
“Thank you.”
“And now,” she continued, “I feel as though you might even understand better than the others what my errand here to Boston was.” She paused again, adding, “I should hate to have you think me silly.”
She studied his face eagerly. His eyes showed interest; his mouth assured her of sympathy.
“Go on,” he bade her.
To him she was like someone he had known before––like one of those vague women he used to see between the stars. Within even these last few minutes he had gotten over the strangeness of her being here. He did not think of this building as a house, of this room as part of a home; it was just a cave opening from the roadside into which they had fled to escape the rain.
It seemed difficult for her to begin. Now that she had determined to tell him she was anxious for him to see clearly.