There was something about him, too, that
explained how "queer" many people might think him; but he did not
seem "queer" to Mary Vertrees; he seemed the most quaintly natural
person she had ever met.
He waited, and became coherent. "YOU say something now," he said.
"I don't even belong in the chorus, and here I am, trying to sing
the funny man's solo! You--"
"No," she interrupted. "I'd rather play your accompaniment."
"I'll stop and listen to it, then."
"Perhaps--" she began, but after pausing thoughtfully she made a
gesture with her muff, indicating a large brick church which they
were approaching. "Do you see that church, Mr. Sheridan?"
"I suppose I could," he answered in simple truthfulness, looking at
her. "But I don't want to. Once, when I was ill, the nurse told me
I'd better say anything that was on my mind, and I got the habit.
The other reason I don't want to see the church is that I have a
feeling it's where you're going, and where I'll be sent back."
She shook her head in cheery negation. "Not unless you want to be.
Would you like to come with me?"
"Why--why--yes," he said. "Anywhere!" And again it was apparent
that he spoke in simple truthfulness.
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