167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days. He had his sections of the Siegfried map folded in his pocket, and he squatted up with his legs crossed like an Indian idol while she lay prone beside him and followed every movement of his indicatory finger. Martha had the square look of solid English citizenry, which was not deceiving. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag.
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