She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. Wood could not avoid making a slight shuffling sound. “I imagine,” Sir John said, “that your sister would acquaint him with it. Her thought spoke aloud. She gloried in it: he needed her. She could neither speak nor move nor cry out. She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. “A nice time of anxiety you’ve given me, young lady,” he said, as he entered the room.
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