167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. Her voice recalled him. This species of madness cannot properly be attributed to his illness, though its accent might be. What a pity! For all her ignorance of material things—the human inventions which served the physical comforts of man—how much she knew about man himself! She had seen him bereft of all those spiritual props which permit man to walk on two feet instead of four—broken, without resilience. " "You mustn't talk. “What’s wrong?” He asked as she shifted awkwardly. Also she made little pussy-like sounds of a reassuring nature. " "Pray come to the point, Sir," said Mrs.
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