"Nothing, Billy."
She felt his fingers tighten at her side.
"Aren't you happy here, Gina?"
"Of course I am, Billy!" Her head was thrown back so that the long line of her throat showed in its firm molded whiteness. "Only, Billy, I want—I don't think I even know what I want. Only just sometimes I feel it. A want—that—perhaps—isn't—even—mine. It's for something;—well, for something that doesn't feel here."
He stroked her hand.
"It's lonesome for you, Gina."
"No, it isn't that. It's just; oh, I guess it's just that I worry about you."
"Me, Gina?"
"Yes, Billy. Sometimes you look so—so starved. That's what makes me think it's your want I feel—; yours that you want very much—and—and—Billy, that you can't get hold of."
"No, Gina! No!"