"Dee? No. What is it?"
"It isn't exactly Dee. It's Jimmie. He was run over by a car three days ago."
"Not killed!"
"Almost. It's his back. Bobs says they can save him but it would be kinder to let him die. He'll never be anything but a helpless log."
"Good Heavens! Poor Dee! I must go over there."
"We'll go over together. I'll tell you as we go." She ran to get her hat, returned at once, setting it in place on her mutinous hair, stood studying him for a moment through half-closed eyes, then leapt to him, flung her arms about his body, pressed her cheek to his, murmuring, "It's too flawless to have you back, Cary!"
Outside, she said, "Dee was going to leave him."
"No! For what earthly reason?"
"I can't tell you. Yes, I can. I can tell you anything—now." She flushed, but looked at him unflinchingly. "It's strange, isn't it?"