“More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. Kneebone. He eyed the young couple with the tragic history behind them, and could only suppose that familiarity had dulled their senses. Gods! what it must be to pour out strong, splendid verse—mighty lines! mighty lines! If I do, Ann Veronica, it will be you. Can't I make you understand? Perhaps it sounds cruel to you; but we women often have to be cruel defensively.
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