"Isn't it light enough to get moving, Claire?" His rich, warm tones broke in upon her thought like a shattering cataract. How musical and vibrant his voice was!
"I think so." She stood up unsteadily.
"Good. We'd better go down nearer the river. We will want a sheltered ravine for our winter camp."
"Very well." She threw her arm over his shoulder. "It isn't far down, and it's clear going. When we start again, I'll be able to walk. And then I'll lead you, Mr. Lawrence." She spoke half in jest.
"And if we are alive, I shall make it possible for you to do so comfortably. I hope for something to make shoes of." He answered with a frank, sincere joy at her being able to walk, and she was ashamed of her anger. He was not to blame for being anxious to have her well, to have felt otherwise would certainly have been to be a fool indeed. She should rejoice with him, for then they could get home that much sooner, home to her husband and her old life. She warmed at the idea, and felt a sense of gratitude toward Lawrence that was good and wholesome. "I have been silly," she thought. "He is really not to be expected to fall and adore me, and certainly I ought not to blame him for being blind. He couldn't help that, either."
"Lawrence," she said aloud, "I am a beastly unjust wretch."
"I don't see it," he protested.
"But you ought to see it. I don't play fair with you."
"You said that once before, I believe. I don't agree any more now that I did then."
"But I think all sorts of beastly things." She could not understand her frankness.