"My darling, I'm heartbroken to think of the way I've treated you," he said. "I think I'd better throw myself in the harbour."
He took her hand in his and held it shakily. Her loose sleeve slipped up; on the white arm he saw blue marks of fingers; this jerked him a little. He had not known he had got to that yet. Suddenly he kissed them and began to cry.
"When did I do that?"
"What?" she said guilelessly.
"Your arm—"
"Oh, that!" she said, flushing. "That's nothing. I don't know how I did it. Mrs. King's mangle, I think it was. It's ugly. I don't like you to see ugly things." She drew the sleeve down tight.
"My poor little brave darling," he whispered, drawing her closer, trying to make her hide her face on his shoulder as he measured the distance between his hand that was round her waist and the apron pocket. He saw that it was hopeless.
"Marcella—when your father was ill, did he pray?"
"Yes. All the time."
"I wish I could," he murmured.