Peter was putting books into a portmanteau, and did not answer.
"You mean to do that ... to Denis...."
Peter put in socks and handkerchiefs.
"And to Lucy.... I don't understand you, Peter.... I simply don't understand. Are you mad—or drunk—or didn't I really ever know you in the least?"
Peter stuffed in Thomas' nightgowns, crumpling them hideously.
"Very well," said Rodney, very quietly. "It doesn't particularly matter which it is. In any case you are not going to do it. I shall prevent it."
"You can't," Peter flung at him, crushing a woolly rabbit in among Thomas' clothes.
Rodney sat still and looked at him, resting his chin on his hand; looked into him, through him, beyond him.
"I believe I can," he said simply.
Peter stopped filling the bag, and, still sitting on the floor by it, delivered himself at last.