A surge of contempt swept over him that he could have forgotten for a moment.

He did not want to forget; he did not want to think of anything else.
"They smell awfully g-good," whispered Annette.
"What ?" "The hoe-cakes.

I didn't have any dinner." "Neither did I." Annette looked up quickly.

"What were you d-doing out there on the track, Sandy ?" The farmer's wife fortunately came to the rescue.
"Hitch up yer cheers, you two, and take a little snack afore you go out in the cold ag'in." Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry.
He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into the night.

Was all the rest of life going to be like this?
Was that restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart forever?
Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder and bits of the conversation broke in upon him.
"Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot.