"I know," she said sadly, her thin hands supporting her chin. "It seems as though we had played our long farce to its end. Death is as inexorable in its demands as life." The circles under her eyes were great half-moons.
"We have done well, though," he argued. "We've done better than well. Who would have believed that a blind man and a crippled woman could have come as far as this?"
"I didn't believe it, Lawrence," she said, and her voice and eyes were full of a warmth that had grown of late to be fairly constant. "I didn't believe it, and I wouldn't believe it now if I were told the story back home."
"I'm not sure; I might have," Lawrence said proudly. "I know the blind and their capabilities."
"I'm learning to know them," she admitted, and lapsed into silence.
"Shall we go into camp, then," he asked, as if they had not mentioned anything else.
Claire hesitated, then said slowly: "It's our only chance. Are you willing to spend a winter with me?" Her eyes glanced amusedly at him.
Catching the note in her voice, Lawrence laughed. "It seems inevitable," he said, "and, anyway, I couldn't ask for a better companion. You don't disturb me, and I don't irritate you—that is, not especially."
She looked at him impatiently. "Don't you?" she said, meditatively. "Well, I'm glad I don't bother you."
"Yes," he assented seriously. "You've been mighty open-minded, Claire, and you haven't hampered me with incredulities."