"What's this about the dusky Flora?" Charles came into the kitchen.
"I'll tell you about it later." Catherine spoke hastily. Tired as she was, their home-coming had given her the old sweet rush of pleasure, of safety, of possession. She wanted to keep it untouched, free of that horror and pity.
Much later, when the children were in bed, Charles strolled into the kitchen and reached for a dish towel. Catherine looked up at him as he rubbed a tumbler with slow care.
"Like old times, isn't it, eh?" He set the glass on the shelf.
Catherine swallowed her sigh.
"Me wiping dishes, and telling you about what I've been doing—" Was he deliberately wistful?
"You needn't wait for dishes, need you, to talk?" Catherine's smile blunted the slight edge in her words.
"Somehow, nowadays, there never seems any chance. Nights you have to go to sleep, and day times you aren't here."