He looked at her with her hair pushed up and laughed.
"Golliwog, what's happened to your hair?"
She looked away from him, fighting a weak inclination to go to him and cry.
"Nothing," she said.
"Painting in this light! Why, Nell, you must be crazy!"
"I daresay I am. I'm sick of never being able to paint—"
"But a dense fog!"
"It's always dense fog in London."
"Headache?" he queried.
"It's my temper that aches, I think."