He clenched his teeth as though somehow that would clamp down on the unwanted words and shove them back into the dark recesses where they belonged. But they were in his brain, not his mouth, and clenching his teeth only seemed to make the refrain ring all the more loudly. He opened his mouth and said before he could stop himself,
"I must not . . ."
"You must not what?" Gram Bennett asked.
She sat at the side of the little table in the kitchen and not at the great one in the dining room as when all the Bennetts' eleven children were home. Then Gramps sat at the head of the table and Gram at the foot. But the little table was big enough now that there were only three of them for most meals.
"Nothing." Bud choked. "I—I was just thinking out loud."
"You needn't be afraid to speak up, Allan. If there's something you must not do, you have only to say so."
Gram spoke very gently, but Bud squirmed. He did not wriggle on his chair for he had learned to hide as well as he could what he really felt. To show your feelings was to show your weakness, and there was always somebody ready to pounce on a weakness. He should have known better than to talk out loud.
"Tell us, Allan," Gram coaxed.
"There's nothing to tell," he said, looking down at his plate and feeling his cheeks flush.