"No wonder," said Christopher, looking down at Anne, "that you wanted this—but tell me precisely why."
She tried to tell him, but found it difficult. "I seem to find something here that I thought I had lost."
"What things?"
"Well—guardian angels—do you believe in them?" She spoke lightly, as if it were not in the least serious, but he felt that it was serious.
"I believe in all beautiful things—"
"I used to think when I was a little girl that they were around me when I was asleep—
'Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—
Bless the bed that I lie on—'"
her laugh was a bit breathless—"but I don't believe in them any more. Ridgeley doesn't, you know. And it does seem silly—"
"Oh, no, it isn't—"
"Ridgeley feels that it is a bit morbid—and perhaps he is right. He says that we must eat and drink and—be merry," she flung out her hands with a little gesture of protest, "but he really isn't merry—"