She was talking at random, hardly knowing what she said; anxious only to put off for a few brief moments the explanation which she had suddenly begun to look upon with genuine terror.
It is thus that, when, with swollen cheek, we have taken our seat in his elaborate chair, we strive to delay the pitiless dentist (while he, adamantine soul, selects from his jingling store the instrument most diabolically suited to our case), happy with a happiness all too briefly bright, if he will but turn and admit that the day is fine. [Jack’s mocking pencil, again! I protest. Alice.]
“Yes, it was intentional.”
She looked up.
“Well, not a slight, of course, but intentional.”
“Why? I cannot imagine.” But she did imagine why, though but vaguely.
“Ah! I am glad you ask that question. It enables me to begin.”
But he did not begin. He knit his brows instead, and fixed his eyes in perplexity upon the shining sand. “I hardly know what to say to you.”
“Then don’t say anything,” exclaimed she, eagerly.
“Don’t say anything?”