"Arthur--oh, what is it? Are you sick?"
"N-no, why?"
"You were moaning."
"Oh, well, I--I'm all right, I guess. Got a headache, that's all."
"Why have you avoided me lately, Arthur? I'm not angry any more, I'm
only--disappointed."
"Y' mean because I lost me job? They don't want my kind; I--oh, I'm too
mean--too rotten, I guess."
"I heard you cry out in the night, Arthur. What was it?"
"Nothin'--I didn't cry out las' night, I tell ye."
"I heard you!"
"Oh, well, I--I was only dreamin', I guess."
"Why have you acted so strangely lately? You don't eat, you don't go
out; you sit around staring and seem to be listening--almost as if you
were afraid--"
"I ain't--I ain't afraid. Who says I'm afraid? An' I don't want you to
go worryin' y'self sick over me--I ain't a kid no more."
"No, I'm afraid you're not." And sighing, she turned away. But as she
crossed the room, her step slow and listless, he spoke, his head
down-bent and face hidden between clenched hands, voicing, almost
despite himself, the questions that had tortured him so long.
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