‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. And then presently these clouds began to wear thin and expose steep, deep slopes, going down and down, with grass and pine-trees, down and down, and at last, through a great rent in the clouds, bare roofs, shining like very minute pin-heads, and a road like a fibre of white silk-Macugnana, in Italy. Because of the thought of love and companionship? No. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. “It was not necessary,” Sir John answered stiffly. It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self.
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