"I don't see him."
"He walks very fast."
"Was Mamma so uneasy?"
"Yes. . . . She was very restless and anxious."
"Have the others gone away as well?"
"Yes, Mamma was tired. . . . All the same, she relies upon us . . . to come back presently for a moment."
"Mamma is becoming a little exacting. . . ."
"She's growing so old. . . . We may as well give her that pleasure . . . of just going."
How much gentler her tone had become! . . . Once, ah, once she would have flared out at him violently for less than this little difference! . . . Now, ah, now, how much gentler everything about her had become! . . .
She stumbled through the snow.
"Take care, Constance. . . . The pavements are slippery. . . . Take my arm."
"No, I can manage."
"Take my arm."
She took his arm. She slipped again; he held her up. He felt that she was trembling.
"Are you cold?"
"No."
"You've got a thick cloak on."
"I'm not cold."
"What are you so nervous about?"
"I don't know. . . ."
