‘And now,’ he said, drawing Madame to the seat, and contriving to sit close enough that his anatomy touched hers at several points, ‘let us talk about you, madame. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible. She had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. Glad you're home safe. And listen, John. If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself.
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