She shuddered. "It sounds terrible."
"—And beautiful." He murmured it, gently. "We left when I was six years old. No schools there."
"Then—you're from a different world, is that it?"
"You might say that."
"Strange. We're two utterly different people, aren't we, Bill?" She was gazing up at him, studying his features, watching the dappled light and shadows play over them.
Morrow sensed that he was on perilous ground. He said nothing.
"You aren't happy here, are you, Bill?" she spoke almost in a whisper. "You never will be!"
"Most men I've met are—searching for something," he replied hesitantly.
"But they don't devote all their time to it," she protested. "They at least manage to live fairly normal lives and raise families—"
"Do two utterly different people—" He broke off, leaving the question unspoken. But we're down to brass tacks, now, he mused. We just don't feel the same way about things!