"You'll miss a lot of nice sandwiches," he said bitterly. "I made them myself, white meat."
With divine perception she saw the nature of his wound, the misery of his shame and self-abasement. It was not love of her he needed now, but love of himself, to keep life in him.
"We wouldn't have any chance to be us, we couldn't talk, we must say it now."
He remembered that once they had promised themselves they would never say it.
"It's better so, I suppose. Then there won't be even one sorrow that we haven't shared."
"Sorrow?" she said. "Let's call it joy. Dear, I shall always worship you as the bravest and most generous I have ever known. To do without things one can't have, what credit is that? But to do without what one might have had . . . George, let me try to get a little rest. I feel so ill."
He tucked her in and patted her shoulder.
"Good-night, dear," he said. "Don't worry. Everything will be all right in the morning. God bless you. . . . Don't forget any of the things I haven't told you."
She knew that this was as near being one of his Moments as he could be expected to manage. He had turned the corner, at least three of the Georges
