Rodney sat still and looked at him, resting his chin on his hand; looked
into him, through him, beyond him.

"I believe I can," he said simply.

Peter stopped filling the bag, and, still sitting on the floor by it,
delivered himself at last.

"We care for each other. Isn't that to count, then? We always have cared
for each other. Are we to do without each other for always? We want each
other, we need each other. Denis doesn't need Lucy. He never did; not as
I do. Are Lucy and I to do without each other, living only half a life,
because of him? I tell you, I'm sick to death of doing without things.
The time has come when it won't do any more, and I'm going to take what
I can. I think I would rob anyone quite cheerfully if he had what I
wanted. A few days ago I did rob; I bought things I knew I couldn't pay
for. I'm sending them back now simply because I don't want them any more,
not because I'm sorry I took them. It was fair I should take them; it was
my turn to have things, mine and Thomas's. And now I'm going to take
this, and keep it, till it's taken away from me. I daresay it will be
taken away soon; my things always are. Everything has broken and gone,
one thing after another, all my life--all the things I've cared for. I'm
tired of it. I was sick of it by the time I was ten years old, sick of
always getting ill or smashed up; and that's gone on ever since, and
people have always thought, I know, 'Oh, it's only him, he never minds
anything, he doesn't count, he's just a crock, and his only use is to
play the fool for us.' But I did mind; I did. And I only played the fool
because it would have been drearier still not to, and because there was
always something amusing left to laugh at, not because I didn't mind.
And then I cared for Denis as ... Oh, but you know how I cared for Denis.