“But you were glad to see me—what you did see of me?”
“Of course—I was—didn’t you think I was?”
Uncle Marcus hadn’t been sure.
“Let’s play at somethin’,” suggested Shan’t.
He felt comforted—a little. Two arms were round his neck, and he felt as nearly comforted as it is possible to feel when the comforting arms are not real arms and the child is not a real child, and nothing is real but the hurt the real child inflicted.
XII
An old man cried, “Umbrella to sell.” It had no handle.
He met an old woman who cried she had an umbrella
to sell, but only the handle. Each called what they had
an umbrella, but only the man’s could keep off the rain.