"Walk back with me," Jeannette said.
"Yes," he said.
"Let's go ... now ... take my arm."
"Yes."
They walked arm in arm, the cemetery road straight, narrow, an uncut weed strip down the middle, its double row of pines beaded with rain, needles sagging, a sparrow chattering in a small tree.
She wanted to restore their relationship: wanted to help him: what was his mood?
"Are you warm?" she asked.
"Yes ... no ... I'm cold ... the church was cold ... are you cold?"
"I've got a sweater on underneath my coat. I can't take a chance, and catch a cold."
"We were plenty wacky to try to have a picnic at this season of the year," he admitted.