“Kick right over the traces. I would. I couldn’t go on as I have been going, lonely, like a lost dog.”
She raised his fingers and rubbed them along her lips.
“You will not be lonely,” said the unfortunate man in a muted voice. “You need not be afraid of that.” The utter inadequacy of the remark came to him like one of those nightmare recognitions encountered as a rule only in Dreamland. Yet she seemed to find it sufficient, her mind perhaps being engaged elsewhere.
“What would you have said if I had run away from you for good?” asked she. “Would you have been sorry?”
“Yes—dreadfully.”
“Are you glad I’ve come back?”
“I am.”
“Honestly glad?”
“Really glad?”