"Not as I loved mine. But this might be merely a figurative mode of describing his customary vigilance. He got out in much the same way from the Gatehouse,—stole the keys, and passed through a room where I was sitting half-asleep in a chair. For four hours he had shifted his own troubles to the shoulders of these imaginative characters. Her hand came up and she laced her fingers with his. I’ve told you that practically already. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. “They seem smaller, you know, even physically smaller,” she said.
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