"Perhaps he's got to do it, dearie," she suggested.
"What do you mean by got to do it?" exclaimed Miss Ensor. "Who's making
him do it, except himself?"
Mary flushed. She seemed to want to get back to her cooking. "It's
something inside us, dearie," she thought: "that nobody hears but
ourselves."
"That tells him to talk all that twaddle?" demanded Miss Ensor. "Have
you heard him?"
"No, dearie," Mary admitted. "But I expect it's got its purpose. Or he
wouldn't have to do it."
Miss Ensor gave a gesture of despair and applied herself to her pie. The
hirsute face of Mr. Simson had lost the foolish aggressiveness that had
irritated Joan. He seemed to be pondering matters.
Mary hoped that Joan was hungry. Joan laughed and admitted that she was.
"It's the smell of all the nice things," she explained. Mary promised it
should soon be ready, and went back to her corner.
A short, dark, thick-set man entered and stood looking round the room.
The frame must once have been powerful, but now it was shrunken and
emaciated. The shabby, threadbare clothes hung loosely from the stooping
shoulders.
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