He took her hand.
"You'll see," he said to Clara, "she'll never be better." "Oh, you don't know!" replied the other.
"I do," he said.
She caught him impulsively to her breast.
"Try and forget it, dear," she said; "try and forget it." "I will," he answered.
Her breast was there, warm for him; her hands were in his hair.

It was comforting, and he held his arms round her.

But he did not forget.

He only talked to Clara of something else.

And it was always so.