“It stops and gilds some inconsequential object, and we poor fools try to grasp it—but when we do the sunbeam moves on to something else, and you've got the inconsequential part, but the glitter that made you want it is gone—" He broke off uneasily. She had risen and was standing, dry-eyed, picking little leaves from a dark vine.
"Dot—" "Go way," she said coldly. "What? Why?" "I don't want just words. If that's all you have for me you'd better go."
"Why, Dot—" "What's death to me is just a lot of words to you. You put 'em together so pretty."
"I'm sorry. I was talking about you, Dot."
"Go way from here."