07 janeiro 2013
She always set to work on it at depressed moments, and now she knitted at it nervously, twitching her fingers and counting the stitches.
All these days she had been alone with herself. She did not want to talk of her sorrow, but with that sorrow in her heart she could not talk of outside matters. She knew that in one way or another she would tell him everything, and she was alternately glad at the thought of speaking freely, and angry at the necessity of speaking about it with him, and of hearing his ready-made phrases of good advice and comfort.