very forthright, after reading about Steenie’s funeral. So they sat silent. Then she became aware that she wanted him to say something.
Anything, anything, she thought, going on with her knitting. Anything will do.
“How nice it would be to marry a man with a wash-leather bag for his watch,” she said, for that was the sort of joke they had together.
He snorted. He felt about this engagement as he always felt about any engagement; the girl is much too good for that young man. Slowly it came into her head, why is it then that one wants people to marry? What was the value, the meaning of things? (Every word they said now would be true.) Do say something, she thought, wishing only to hear his voice. For the shadow, the thing folding them in was beginning, she felt, to close round her again. Say anything, she begged, looking at him, as if for help.