"Barley," he said.
"You can't. It was barley last year."
"Was it?"
They were silent then. Jerrold struggled with his feeling of deadly sickness. Anne couldn't trust herself to speak. At the Barrow Farm gate they parted.
ii
Maisie's eyes looked at him across the table, wondering. Her little drooping mouth was half open with anxiety, as if any minute she was going to say something. The looking-glass had shown him his haggard and discoloured face, a face to frighten her. He tried to eat, but the sight and smell of hot roast mutton sickened him.
"Oh, Jerrold, can't you eat it?"
"No, I can't. I'm sorry."
"There's some cold chicken. Will you have that?"
"No, thanks."