HOW TERRIBLE CAN YOU IMAGINE?
“Oh.”
EXACTLY AS TERRIBLE AS THAT.
The blade tilted this way and that.
“And for the child, too,” said Miss Flitworth.
YES.
“I don’t reckon I owe you any favors, Mr. Door. I don’t reckon anyone in the whole world owes you any favors.”
YOU MAY BE RIGHT.
“Mind you, life’s got one or two things to answer for too. Fair’s fair.”
I CANNOT SAY.
Miss Flitworth gave him another long, appraising look.
“There’s a pretty good grindstone in the corner,” she said.
I’VE USED IT.
“And there’s an oilstone in the cupboard.”
I’VE USED THAT, TOO.
She thought she could hear a sound as the blade moved. A sort of faint whine of tensed air.
“And it’s still not sharp enough?”
Bill Door sighed. IT MAY NEVER BE SHARP ENOUGH.
“Come on, man. No sense in giving in,” said Miss Flitworth. “Where there’s life, eh?”
WHERE THERE’S LIFE EH WHAT?
“There’s hope?”
IS THERE?
“Right enough.”
Bill Door ran a bony finger along the edge.
HOPE?
“Got anything else left to try?”
Bill shook his head. He’d tried a number of emotions, but this was a new one.
COULD YOU FETCH ME A STEEL?
It was an hour later.
Miss Flitworth sorted through her rag-bag.