"Paying my bills! That's not all the truth, either. I'll tell you,
Clay. I just got sick of it all. When Chris left I had a chance
to burn my bridges and I burned them. The same people, the same
talk, the same food, the same days filled with the same silly things
that took all my time and gave me nothing."
"How long had you been feeling like that?"
"I don't know. Ever since the war, I suppose. I just got to
thinking - "
Her voice trailed off.
"I have some of Chris's Scotch, if you want a high-ball."
"Thanks, no. Audrey, do you hear from Chris?"
"Yes. He's in a dangerous place now, and sometimes at night - I
suppose I did force him, in a way. He was doing no good here, and
I thought he would find himself over there. But I didn't send him.
He - Tell me about making shells."
He was a little bit disappointed. Evidently she did not depend on
him enough to tell him Chris's story. But again, she was being
loyal to Chris.
He told her about the mill, phrasing his explanation in the simplest
language; the presses drilling on white-hot metal; the great anvils;
the forge; the machine-shop, with its lathes, where the rough
surfaces of the shells were first rough-turned and then machined to
the most exact measurements.
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