It was capable of many interpretations—reproof, anger at fate, polite disbelief, deprecation.
Jim tried to run away from his peculiar and most annoying emotions. But Charity went with him. She looked back and said:
“Funny how the moon rides after us in her white limousine.”
“Huh!” said Jim.
“Is that Mexican you're speaking?” she chided.
“I was just thinking,” Jim growled.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing much—except what a ghastly shame it is that so—so—well, I don't know what to call you—but well, a woman like you—that you should be living alone with nothing better to do than run the gantlet of those God-awful submarines and probably get blown up and drowned, or, worse yet, spend your days breaking your heart nursing a lot of poor mangled, groaning Frenchmen that get shot to pieces or poisoned with gas or—Oh, it's rotten! That's all it is: it's rotten!”
“Somebody has to take care of them.”
“Oh, I know; but it oughtn't to be you. If there was any manhood in this country, you'd have Americans to nurse.”