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Updated: July 2, 2025
I don't know what I'd do if I hadn't got you to talk things over with." "You daren't talk of anything else," she answered unexpectedly. "You're frightened of our being happy together. You're always trying to justify yourself." "I'm not what rubbish!" He tried to laugh at her. It was so like Francey to dash off down a side issue. And yet it was true.
You carried me so nicely so big and strong." She leant against Francey, nodding and smiling to reassure him. And presently she was asleep. He saw how Francey shifted her arm so that it encircled the bowed figure, and every ugly thing that had dogged him in that lonely, haunted walk vanished before the kind steadfastness of her eyes.
They agreed that Francey had not boasted about her hill. It stood up boldly out of the rolling sea of field and common land and was tree-crowned, with primroses shining amongst the young grass. From its summit they could see toy villages and church, spires and motors and char-a-bancs running like alarmed insects along the white, winding lanes. But apparently no one saw the hill. No one came to it.
All this unrest, this sick despair every morning of our lives when we drag ourselves out of bed and wonder why we bother it's just because we've begun to suspect that the millennium is of no use to us. We've got to have more than that some sort of spiritual background or cut our throats." "Wild rhapsodizing, Francey. You don't know a thing." "I don't. Nor do you.
"I think you want them terribly. I suppose I'm not heroic. I don't like your saying 'No' always always." "I shall get what I really want in the end." She sighed, reflected, and then laughed rather ruefully. "Oh, well, get the cups now, at any rate." "There are only three, Francey." "You and I will have to share, then."
He brooded fiercely, intently, like a hound on a hot scent. People turned to look at the big, shabby young man with the sunken, burning eyes that stared through them as though they had been so many shadows. He did not, in fact, see them at all. He made his way by sheer instinct across the crowded street. "She's terribly afraid of death," Francey said. "It's awful to be so afraid.
He would hug her and say; "It's jolly to have someone like you, Christine!" And she would be enormously pleased, and in the dusk they would sit close together and he would tell her of his superb being who changed the course of his life, who was like his mother and Francey and God rolled into one, and for whose sake he had emptied the housekeeping purse.
If Francey were like his mother, then she was also good. It was these rag and bobtail friends that poisoned everything. They would have to be shaken off. Francey was a child, fond of gaiety and pleasure, with no one to guide her. She didn't understand.
In that deliberation the woman in the hospital, Francey Wilmot, Cosgrave, and a host of faceless men who had gone under this woman's chariot wheels played their devious, sinister parts. They goaded him on and justified him. He became in his own eyes the figure of the Law, pronouncing sentence, weightily, without heat or passion or pity. "You do it on purpose," she said, "you make me cough."
He did not think of Francey very often. For when he did it was almost always in those last moments together that he remembered her the Francey who was too strong for him, the Francey who knew that he was a nasty little boy who couldn't even beat a girl who told lies the Francey who despised him. And then it was as though his body had been bruised afresh from head to foot.
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