"Dreaming," she said.
"What are you dreaming about?"
"I don't know—"
"It's not about me, it's nothing about me. Moira, look at me!"
I tell you his tone made my heart bleed. She didn't answer, but looked out into the fog in that absorbed, happy way of hers.
"Moira," he said again, "Moira!" He couldn't get her; he couldn't reach her, any more than if she'd stepped into another world. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to him.
"Moira!" he said; his voice was husky with fear. "What do you find out there?" She turned to him as in a dream. She looked at him and she looked like some spirit when she spoke.
"I find the one I love!" she said.
"What do you mean?" he said. "What do you mean?"
"The one I love," she said again.