"Getting better."
"And your father? Pretty angry at me, I guess."
"No, Father isn't angry any more. He's just sorry."
"Times are changing, Beulah. But if he wound that sack around my neck in sorrow, I don't want him at it when he's cross."
She laughed a little, mirthful ripple. Then, with sudden seriousness, "But, Jim, we shouldn't be jesting. We've got to get you out of here."
"I'm not worrying, Beulah," he answered. "They seem to have the drop on me, but I know a few things they don't. Shall I tell you what I know?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because it would seem like arguing—like trying to prove you are innocent. And you don't need to prove anything to me. You understand? You don't need to prove anything to me."
She felt his eyes hot on her face through the darkness. "You don't need to prove anything to me," she repeated.