At last he asked, "Is it a living man, Ann?"
"No," said Anna.
"Is it a dead man, now?"
Anna moved uneasily. "No, it isn't," she said. "'Tisn't anybody."
But Thomas persisted. "Would it be Noel, if he warn't dead in France?"
"Maybe."
"You're not going to keep on thinking of him, are you?"
"I don't plan to."
"Then--" and Thomas came back to the old question once more, "why not?"
"Why not what?"
"Take me, then?"
"Well," she said vaguely, "I'm too young."
"I'd wait."
"'Twouldn't help any. I want so much, Tom . . . you couldn't give me
all I want."
He said, "What is it I couldn't give you?"
"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.
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