"It isn't they. It isn't anybody."
"What is it then?"
"Only that everything's different. I'm different."
He regarded her for a long time. She was different. It was part of her queerness, this capacity she had for being different. He could see nothing now but her wild fawn look, the softness and the flush of life. It was his miracle on her.
He remained silent, brooding over it. In the stillness she could hear his deep breathing; she could just discern his face, heavy but tender.
"It doesn't mean that you're not well, Jinny?" He remembered that once or twice since he had known her it had meant that.
She smiled. "Oh no, not that."
"It doesn't make you unhappy?"
"No, not if—if it wasn't for that you cared."
"You know it wasn't."