Her arms began to sway again, and she laughed quietly, hideously. "Don't--don't--don't! I make money. That's the worst. I make money. Oh, why don't you hit me? Why was you always a soft man?" For a moment he stood horribly revolted. But his weakness had a better side, and he showed it now. "I say, Annie . . . is it so bad?" "It is hell." "'Soft'?" he harked back again. "It might take some courage to be soft." She peered at him eagerly; then sighed. "But you haven't that sort of courage, Willy." "They would say . . ." he went on musing, "I wonder what they would say? . . . Come back to the lamp," he cried with sudden peevishness. "Don't look out there . . . this circle of light on the pavement . . . like a map of the world." "With only our two shadows on it." "If it were all the world . . ." He peered around, searching the darkness. "If there were nothing to concern us beyond, and we could stay always inside it . . ." "--With the light shining straight down on us, and our shadows close at our feet, and so small! But directly we moved beyond they would lengthen, lengthen . . ." "'Forsaking all other'--that's what the Service says. And what does that mean if we cannot stand apart from all and render account to each other only? I tell you I've made allowances. I didn't make any in the old days, being wrapped up in the shop and the chapel, and you not caring for either. There was fault on my side: I've come to see that." "I'd liefer you struck me, Willy, instead of making allowances." "Oh, come, that's nonsense. It seems to me, Annie, there's nothing we couldn't help to mend together. It would never be the same, of course: but we can understand . . . or at least overlook." In his magnanimity he caught at high thoughts. "This light above us--what if it were the Truth?" "Truth doesn't overlook," she answered, with a hopeless scorn which puzzled him. "No, no," she went on rapidly, yet more gently, "Truth knows of the world outside, and is wakeful. If we move a step our shadows will lengthen. They will touch all bright things--they will fall across the children. Willy, we cannot move!" "I see . . ." "Ah?" She craned forward and almost touched his arm again. "Annie, it comes to me now--I see for the first time how happy we might have been. How came we two to kill love?" The woman gave a cry, almost of joy. Her fingers touched his sleeve now. "We have not killed love. We--I--had stunned him: but (O, I see!) he has picked up his weapons again and is fighting. He is bewildered here, in this great light, and he fights at random . . . fights to make you strong and me weak, you weak and me strong. We can never be one again, never. One of us must fall, must be beaten . . .he does not see this, but O, Willy, he fights . . . he fights!" "He shall fight for you. Annie, come home!" "No, no--for you--and the children!" "Come!"