“Fighting goes with loads of its own baggage, John. ‘I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ He grunted. Quite!” He sat in the arm-chair and took tea, and consumed several of the extra cakes which she had sent out for and talked to her and expressed himself, looking very earnestly at her with his deep-set eyes, and carefully avoiding any crumbs on his mustache the while. “If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him. ” “It seems so—so unworthy”—she picked among her phrases “of the noble love you give—” She stopped, through the difficulty she found in expressing herself. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told.
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