“Well, what should we talk about? You don’t generally take any interest in my things. And, besides, living as we do in a hell of poverty....”
“But that’s just the reason why we ought to have helped each other. It would have made everything easier if we had.”
“Well, I don’t know.... But, anyhow, there’s never been any difficulty on my part, I’m sure.” Egholm spoke throughout with the same slight touch of surprise. Really, she was getting too unreasonable.
There was nothing for it now—she must say it.
“You’ve struck me many a time in the two years we’ve been living here.” She stopped in fright at her own words, then hastened to add: “But I know you don’t mean any harm, of course.”
“Then why do you bother about it?” he said, in the same tone as before. But a moment later, before she could answer, he got up, reached out as if to swing himself out of the boat, then sat down again and shook his head.
“Struck you?” he said plaintively. “Have I really struck you?”
He did not expect an answer, but asked the same question again, all the same. He fumbled for her hand under her apron, and stroked it again and again.
“Have I really struck you?”