"Seems like it means more to me than anything else."
"Dickie! Dickie!"
"Yes'm. It kind of takes the awful edge off things."
"What do you mean? I don't understand."
"Things are so sort of—sharp to me. I mean, I don't know if I can tell you. I feel like I had to put something between me and—and things. Oh, damn! I can't make you see—"
"No," said Sheila, distressed.
"It's always that-a-way," Dickie went on. "I mean, everything's kind of—too much. I used to run miles when I was a kid. And sometimes now when I can get out and walk or ski, the feeling goes. But other times—well, ma'am, whiskey sort of takes the edge off and lets something kind of slack down that gets sort of screwed up. Oh, I don't know …"
"Did you ever go to a doctor about it?"
Dickie looked up at her and smiled. It was the sweetest smile—so patient of this misunderstanding of hers. "No, ma'am."
"Then you don't care to be my friend enough to—to try—"