"Is there a hope, Nick?" she asked gently. "Is there a chance left to us?"
"I don't know!" His voice held an increasing tenseness. "Before God—I—don't know!"
"If there's a chance, the very slightest shadow of the specter of a chance, we'll take it, won't we? Because the other way is always open to us, Nick."
"Yes. It's always open."
"But we won't take that chance," she continued defiantly, "if it involves my losing you, Honey. I meant what I said, Nick: I don't want to live without you!"
"What chance have we?" he queried somberly. "Those are our alternatives—life apart, death together."
"Then you know my choice!" she cried desperately. "Nick, Honey—don't let's draw it out in futile talking! I can't stand it!"
He moved his hand in a gesture of bewilderment and frustration, and turned away, striding nervously toward the window whose blind she had raised. He leaned his hands on the table, peering dejectedly out upon the street below.
"What time," he asked irrelevantly in a queer voice, "did the Doctor say the moon rose? Do you remember?"
"No," she said tensely. "Oh, Honey! Please—don't stand there with your back to me now, when I'm half crazy!"