“Lie here,” she sobbed, “like a mummy ... no inside left, nothing left ... thinking and thinking and thinking ... trying to lie to myself right and left, north and south ... can’t have what I want, so must make up stories ... and you sit there stiff as a pole saying ‘Promise’ ... call yourself a friend.... You don’t know how ill I’ve been!”
“I do, I do, Iris! For pity’s sake! If that man comes in and finds you like th——”
“And you think I’m awful,” she whispered helplessly. She stared at me. “You think I’m awful,” she said quite calmly.
“Iris,” I said, “I like you. Of course, if I didn’t....”
“Of course,” she said, “he doesn’t know....”
“Of course,” I said.
“And he’ll never know....”
“Good,” I said.
“As for me,” she whispered ...
On her forehead there were little beads of wet. I wiped them off with my handkerchief, and she said: “My nose, too, please. Had my hair waved ... but it never stays when you’re not well. Got to be well to have curly hair....”