"No. Do you remember that morning I fetched you from Holloway?
"Yes." And she said as he had said then, "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it--except that it was dear of you."
"And yet it was from that morning--from five-thirty a.m.--that we seemed to go wrong.
"There's something I wanted most awfully to say, if you could stand going back to it for just one second. Do you remember saying that I didn't care? That I never thought of you when you were in prison or wondered what you were feeling? That's what put me off. It hurt so atrociously that I couldn't say anything.
"It wasn't true that I didn't think about you. I thought about nothing else when I wasn't working; I nearly went off my head with thinking.
"And you said I didn't listen to what you told me. That wasn't true. I was listening like anything."
"Darling--what did I tell you?"
"Oh--about the thing you called your experience, or your adventure, or something."
"My adventure?"
"That's what you called it. A sort of dream you had in prison. I couldn't say anything because I was stupid. It was beyond me. It's beyond me now."