“Well, like whom?”
“Like Zanin. That's the way he talked to me.”
“Perhaps it's the way a man talks when he—” He could not control his voice and stopped.
Sue kept very still; but anally, softly, rather wearily, she said: “I'm sorry, Henry! I've got to catch the ten-fifteen back.”
He looked at his watch; seeing nothing. “You'll be hurrying then, Sue.”
“No, there's nearly an hour.” She turned on the light, moved into the bedroom and glanced into an open bureau drawer. She drew out the one below, then thoughtful, half smiling, came to the door. “Henry—-you packed everything?”
“Everything, I'm sure. Though you might take a last look around.”
“But—Henry, you must have packed Betty's things, too.”
The color surged up over his collar. He was thinking of those soft garments and the prayers that had rustled shyly upward from his torn heart as he felt them in his hands. Wordless, he unstrapped the trunk and lifted the lid. Sue repacked the trays.
She stood looking at the dancing clothes, fingering them.