And when she tried to speak again she sobbed a little.
“Don’t try,” he begged. “Poor Virginia——”
“I can speak,” she almost boasted. “It’s this pain....”
“There’s things inside me,” she said, with a sob. “Steel things.... They’ve left them in there ... holding things together.... Oh, it hurts, Ivor....”
She tried to explain how it hurt. She wanted to explain.
“Look,” she whispered, with screwed-up eyes. She tried to lift up the covering to show him something. He had to help her. “Look,” she said pitifully. And she lifted up her hands under the clothes, and he saw that they were tied together with a handkerchief. “That’s to stop me tearing the things out and killing myself,” she explained with amazing clarity. “There’s things sticking in underneath....”
“I can’t bear it,” she sobbed dryly. “All the time ... like being ploughed up inside, Ivor—with a plough.... All the time.... I can’t bear it.”
And Ivor couldn’t bear it. He had to go out. Oh, my God, how awful!...
He lingered on the way down the stairs, for his eyes were wet and he didn’t want to look a fool. Ian Black was still in the waiting-room, drawing on his gloves. He had waited for him, it seemed.
“Well, what d’you think?” Black asked casually. Amazing man! he asked it as though he could possibly care a damn what Ivor thought about it. But it was reassuring, that casual question.