"It hasn't. It hasn't."
Rowcliffe's nerves winced before her fierce intensity. He withdrew his sheltering hand.
"Just at first," she said, "it was all right. But you see—it's broken down. You said it would."
"You mustn't keep on bothering about what I said."
"It isn't what you said. It's what is. It's this place. We're all tied up together in it, tight. We can't get away from each other. It isn't as if I could leave. I'm stuck here with Papa."
"My dear Gwenda, did I ever say you ought to leave?"
"No. You said you ought. It's the same thing."
"It isn't. And I don't say it now. What is the earthly use of going back on things? That's what makes you ill. Put it straight out of your mind. You know I can't help you if you go on like this."
"You can."
"My dear, I wish I knew how. You asked me to stay and I stayed. I can understand that."