It's not really a question. It is, she thinks privately, rather a sad thing to know. Bill Scully is strict and he's particular and when he's angry-- which he is, perhaps, more often than she'd rather admit-- it has the electricity of a thunderstorm. But she loves him, fiercely, and she's never had to wonder whether he loves her.
"I'm not sure it'd be easier. When he's gone you'd always be waiting for him to come back."
Safely, she doesn't say, because it's understood. Because she can't help being a little superstitious.
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It's not really a question. It is, she thinks privately, rather a sad thing to know. Bill Scully is strict and he's particular and when he's angry-- which he is, perhaps, more often than she'd rather admit-- it has the electricity of a thunderstorm. But she loves him, fiercely, and she's never had to wonder whether he loves her.
"I'm not sure it'd be easier. When he's gone you'd always be waiting for him to come back."
Safely, she doesn't say, because it's understood. Because she can't help being a little superstitious.