My despair of a sort found vent in violent interjecting of an immaterial query.
"You leave your letters about," she said, "and....

It will be best for you." "It will not," I said bitterly.

"It could never be the same.

I don't want to see Churchill.

I want...." "You want ?" she asked, in a low monotone.
"You," I answered.
She spoke at last, very slowly: "Oh, as for me, I am going to marry Gurnard." I don't know just what I said then, but I remember that I found myself repeating over and over again, the phrases running metrically up and down my mind: "You couldn't marry Gurnard; you don't know what he is.
You couldn't marry Gurnard; you don't know what he is." I don't suppose that I knew anything to the discredit of Gurnard--but he struck me in that way at that moment; struck me convincingly--more than any array of facts could have done.
"Oh--as for what he is--" she said, and paused.