"I can't. I'm afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"Of not being able to finish it—of letting you down."
He turned and looked at her intently.
"That's why you've been killing yourself, is it?"
She did not answer.
"I didn't know. I didn't think," he said. "You should have told me."
"It's my fault. I ought to have known. I ought never to have tried."
"Why did you?" His sulkiness, his ferocity, was gone now; he was gentleness itself.
"Because I wanted to please you."