"Why, yes." She was surprised. "Of course it's all I do. It's all I care about doing. It takes every minute of my time. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes, I know it." His tone was gruff.
"Then why do you always talk about it like this?" She asked him. "I've done it for years. Ever since I can remember. It's hard work, but I like doing it. I don't think you know how alone I've always been. I'm afraid you don't realize that. Not really, anyway. I've just never had anything to care about until I started in with the flowers. I don't know if I ought to tell you—"
She stopped speaking quite suddenly.
"What?"
"I don't think you'd like to know what I was going to say."
"Tell me," he insisted.
"Well." She spoke slowly. "Sometimes I feel as though—It's so hard to say. But sometimes I feel as if the flowers know how much I care and—and as if they care too."
"Why d'you say that?"
"I don't quite know. Only they're living things; they are, aren't they?"