It seemed to be her way of withdrawing into
herself at critical moments. When she stopped he was sure she had been
laughing. Laughter still twinkled at the corners of her mouth and in
her eyes.
"Well, I'm going to tidy you up, anyhow. Come sit down here."
He obeyed at once. It comforted him just to be near her. It was like
sitting by a fire on a cold day when you were half frozen. Something
in you melted and came to life and stretched itself, something that was
itself gentle and compassionate. It was difficult to remember that he
meant to kill Edith frightfully, though his mind was quite made up on
the subject. Meantime Frances had produced her own handkerchief--a
large clean one--and methodically rubbed away the blood and some of the
tear stains, and as much of the dirt as could be managed without soap
and water. This done, she refolded the handkerchief with its soiled
side innermost, and tied it neatly round the wounded head, leaving two
long ends which stood up like rabbit's ears. A gust of April wind
wagged them comically, and made mock of the sorrowful, grubby face
underneath. Even Frances, who was only nine herself, must have seen
that the sorrow was not the ordinary childish thing that came and went,
leaving no trace. In a way it was always there. When he was not
laughing and shouting you saw it--a careworn, anxious look, as though
he were always afraid something might pounce out on him. It ought to
have been pathetic, but somehow or other it was not.
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