“Oh no! Never! He never said he hated anything. He just made a funny face. He was one of those who wouldn’t take care: like some of the first lads as went off so blithe to the war and got killed right away. He wasn’t really wezzle-brained. But he wouldn’t care. I used to say to him: ’You care for nought nor nobody!’ But he did! The way he sat when my first baby was born, motionless, and the sort of fatal eyes he looked at me with, when it was over! I had a bad time, but I had to comfort him . ’It’s all right, lad, it’s all right!’ I said to him. And he gave me a look, and that funny sort of smile. He never said anything. But I don’t believe he had any right pleasure with me at nights after; he’d never really let himself go. I used to say to him: ’Oh, let thysen go, lad!’⁠—I’d talk broad to him sometimes. And he said nothing. But he wouldn’t let himself go, or he couldn’t. He didn’t want me to have any more children. I always blamed his mother, for letting him in th’ room. He’d no right t’ave been there. Men makes so much more of things than they should, once they start brooding.”

“Did he mind so much?” said Connie in wonder.