"We don't talk. It's astonishing—how we don't. We don't. We can't. We try to, and we can't. And she goes her way, and now—I will go mine."
"And leave her?"
He nodded.
"In London?"
"With all the things she cares for."
"Except yourself."
"I'm only a means——"
She turned her quiet face to him. "You know," she said, "that isn't true."...
"No," she repeated, to his silent contradiction.
"I've watched her," she went on. "You're not a means. I'd have spoken long ago if I had thought that. Haven't I watched? Haven't I lain awake through long nights thinking about her and you, thinking over every casual mood, every little sign—longing to help—helpless." ... She struggled with herself, for she was weeping. "It has come to this," she said in a whisper, and choked back a flood of tears.