His face was twisted with pain. Her own gaze grew misty.
“Take them!” he cried in the same angry way. And she laid them in the trunk.
He was desperately fighting himself now. And with momentary success. He said abruptly: “I'm going to buy your books myself, Sue. So just leave them there for the present.”
“You, Henry!” She bit her lip. “You know I can't let you do that.”
“You've got to let me!” He stood right over her now.
“But you—with your library—”
“I have no library.” His voice dropped here—and he stirred, walking over to the window; stared out; finally turned and said, more quietly: “Am I talking like a crazy man, Sue?”
“Well, Henry—” She tried to smile. “I have always counted on your steadiness. Perhaps I've leaned too much on it.”
He stood considering her and himself. Suddenly he confronted her again, raised his long arms and gripped her shoulders.
“And now, Sue,” he said, and she could fed his hands trembling with the passion that she heard in his voice, “I'm failing you.”