His voice was charged with some of the strangeness of the night, some significance of the mystery of life and death.
"You read my letter …"
"Yes."
"And you understand … at last?"
"I don't know … I can't tell."
He paused; he leaned nearer.
"Why are you going away?"
"I've been sick," she whispered. "The doctor told me to go."
"For long?"
"For a rest."