“It’s not very lively, always going about with you. It’s always do you love me, do you love me, till I just get about sick of it.”
He knew it was madness to go on asking her that, but he could not help himself.
“Oh, I like you all right,” she would answer.
“Is that all? I love you with all my heart.”
“I’m not that sort, I’m not one to say much.”
“If you knew how happy just one word would make me!”
“Well, what I always say is, people must take me as they find me, and if they don’t like it they can lump it.”
But sometimes she expressed herself more plainly still, and, when he asked the question, answered:
“Oh, don’t go on at that again.”
Then he became sulky and silent. He hated her.