It's not fear of the Germans. It's fear of something that one
can't touch or feel--that doesn't even exist--the fear of one's
imagination. But the truth is that I've funked things for the last year
or so. I've been in a chronic blue funk about living."
She smiled at him brightly. "It is like a bit of thistle-down. Bring it
out into the air and sunlight, and it will blow away."
"I wonder if you're right. Already I feel better because I've told you;
and yet I've gone in terror lest my mother should discover it."
When she spoke again she changed the subject as lightly as if they had
been discussing the weather. "You used to be interested in public
matters. Do you remember how you talked to me in your college days
about outstripping John in the race? You were full of ideas then, and
full of ambition too." She was touching a string that had never failed
her yet, and she waited, with an inscrutable smile, for the response.
"I know," he answered, "but that was in another life--that was before
the war.
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