She came nearer, laid a hand on his arm:
“Are you afraid?”
He stood silent, the latch-key in his hand.
“I’m not afraid of myself—if that is what you mean,” he said.
“That is partly what I mean ... you’ll have to mount guard over your soul.”
“I’ll look out for my soul,” he retorted dryly.
“Do so. I lost mine. I—I would not wish any harm to yours through our companionship.”
“Don’t you worry about my soul,” he remarked, fitting the key to the lock. But again her hand fell on his wrist:
“Wait. I can’t—can’t help warning you. Neither your soul nor your body are safe if—if you ever do make of me a companion. I’ve got to tell you this!”
“What are you talking about?” he demanded bluntly.