‘I can’t think how I’ve tolerated myself all these years. They would be partners only in loneliness. That is why I have dyed my hair, that is why I have abandoned my rôle of ingenuèe and altered my whole style of dress. E. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. I am certainly no ghost. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. The door to the library burst open. The warm September sun fell strongly on this part of the grounds, uninterrupted by trees, its light bouncing off the glass in the mansion’s walls. “Annabel?” he exclaimed. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone. Go for it.
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