" A clergyman . . . good Lord!" He laughed grimly. "Still religious,
I see."
All this time she was thinking how ill he was. Every breath that he
drew seemed to hurt him. His eyes were dull and expressionless. He
moved his hands, sometimes, with a groping movement as though he
could not see. He drank his tea thirstily, eagerly.
At last he had finished. He bent forward, leaning on his hands,
looking her steadily in the face for the first time.
"It was clever of you to do this," he said; "damn clever. I was
hungry, I don't mind confessing . . . but that's the last of it. Do
you hear? I can look after myself. I know. You're feeling sorry for
me. Think I'm in a dirty room with no one to look after me. Think
I'm ill. I bet Amy told you I was ill. 'Oh, poor fellow,' you
thought, 'I must go and look after him.' Well, I'm not a poor fellow
and I don't want looking after. I can manage for myself very nicely.
And I don't want any women hanging round. I'm sick of women, and
that's flat."
"I'm not pretending it's not all my own fault. It is. ALL my own
fault, but I don't want any one coming round and saying so.
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