She took the cigarette from her lips and her voice trembled a little.
"I want you to be something more to me than that, sir," she said. "I
want to feel that I'm an Allway, fighting for the things we've always had
at heart. I'll try and be worthy of the name."
Her hand stole out to him across the table, but she kept her face away
from him. Until she felt his grasp grow tight, and then she turned and
their eyes met.
"You'll be the last of the name," he said. "Something tells me that. I'm
glad you're a fighter. I always prayed my child might be a fighter."
Arthur had not been home since the beginning of the war. Twice he had
written them to expect him, but the little fleet of mine sweepers had
been hard pressed, and on both occasions his leave had been stopped at
the last moment. One afternoon he turned up unexpectedly at the
hospital. It was a few weeks after the Conscription Act had been passed.
Joan took him into her room at the end of the ward, from where, through
the open door, she could still keep watch. They spoke in low tones.
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