"Because one of us has got to clear out. It can't be you, so it's got to be me. And going away isn't the worst of it. It'll be worse for you sticking on here where everything reminds you—At least I shall have new things to keep my mind off it."
"Nothing will keep your mind off it. You'll fret yourself to death."
"No, I shan't. I shall have too much to do. You're not to be sorry for me, Jerrold."
"But you're giving up everything. The Barrow Farm. The place you wanted.
You won't have a thing."
"I don't want 'things.' It's easier to chuck them than to hang on to them when they'll remind me…. Really, if I could see any other way I'd take it."
"But you can't go. You're not fit to go. You're ill."
"I shall be all right when I get there."
"But what do you think you're going to do in Canada? It's not as if you'd got anything to go for."
"I shall find something. I shall work on somebody's ranch first and learn Canadian farming. Then I shall look out for land and buy it. I've got stacks of money. All Grandpapa Everitt's, and the money for the farm. Stacks. I shall get on all right."
"When did you think of all this?"