Joyce was in my arms, and we were kissing each other in the most shameless and unabashed way.
"Oh, my dear," she said, "I hope you haven't hurt your hand."
"It stung a bit," I admitted, "but I've got another one—and two feet." I put her gently aside. "Get up, George," I said.
He lay where he was, pretending to be unconscious.
"If you don't get up at once, George," I said softly, "I shall kick you—hard."
He scrambled to his feet, and then crouched back against the wall eyeing me like a trapped weasel.
I indulged myself in a good heart-filling look at him.
"So you've been sorry for me, George?" I said. "All these three long weary years that I've been rotting in Dartmoor, you've been really and truly sorry for me?"
He licked his lips and nodded.
I laughed. "Well, I'm sorry for you now, George," I said—"damned sorry."