"I don't know, Tom . . . I want what other people have . . .
experiences . . ."
At his bitter laugh, she was filled with pity for herself. "Is it so
funny?" she asked. "I don't care."
"Whatever's got into you, Ann?"
"I don't know there's anything got into me beyond I don't want to grow
old--and dry. . . ."
"I don't see as you can help it any."
But Anna was tipsy with youth: she swore she'd be dead before she was
old.
"Hush, Ann."
"Why should I hush?" she asked. "It's the truth."
"It's a lie, that's what it is," said Thomas.
"Do you hate me, Tom?" she said. And she sat looking steadily before
her.
"I don't know what's got into you. You act so queer."
"I want to be happy," she whispered.
"Then . . . you can do as you like for all of me."
But as they rode along in silence, wrapped in mist, she drew closer to
him, all her reckless spirit gone. "There . . . you've made me cry,"
she said, and put her hand, cold and moist, into his.
"Aren't you going to kiss me, Tom?"
He slapped the reins bitterly across his horse's back. "What's the
good of that?" he asked, in turn.
"Perhaps," she said faintly, "there isn't any. Oh, I don't know . . .
what's the difference?"
And so they rode on in silence, with pale cheeks and strange thoughts.