His voice broke.
Deirdre flung her arms about him, reckless of all but that some trouble within had forced that cry. There was a bitter undertone in his words that she did not understand, although she associated them in some way with Davey's mother and the disturbance and mental turmoil into which Davey's arrest had put him.
"I love you," she cried, "more than all the world—more than Davey, more than anyone or anything in it!"
He stooped and kissed her.
"What a jealous brute I am," he murmured, "to have taken that from you."
"There's nothing you haven't told me?" she asked, searching his face.
"No," he replied, turning his face from her and burying it in her hair.
"You haven't told me anything at all of what you're going to do to get Davey off," she said sharply.
"Oh, well," he parried. "I don't know ...I haven't decided ... it will depend upon circumstances."
He recognised the anxiety of her voice.