"I've stopped howling and drumming the floor with my heels," Lucinda admitted—"if that's what you mean. When I found it didn't do any good, I gave it up, and I've felt more cheerful ever since."
"Cheerful!" Willis repeated in a sepulchral voice.
"More like an average human being who's been horribly hurt but who can't see why life should be counted a total loss for all that; less like the wronged wife in a movie, mugging at a camera."
"But, my poor child! how you must have suffered."
"Let's not talk about that, please," Lucinda begged. "It only makes me vindictive to remember; and I don't want to feel that way about Bel, I don't want to be unjust. It's bad enough to have to be just."
"Must you?" Willis asked, shaking a commiserative head.
"Yes." Lucinda met his skeptical old eyes with eyes of clear candour. "Absolutely," she added with a finality not to be discredited.
Willis sighed heavily, released her hand, sat down, and meticulously adjusted the knees of striped grey trousers.
"I will confess I had hoped to find you of another mind."
"I'm sorry. Please don't think me hard or unforgiving, but ... I've had plenty of time to mull things over, you know; and I know I couldn't consider going back to Bel, no matter what he might be ready to promise. Bel can't keep a promise, not that kind, at least."