They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. “You see,” he said, “it is doubtful if we can ever marry. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. ‘Quickly! You must get up. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. Sooner or later we’ll certainly do something to clean those prisons you told me about—limewash the underside of life.
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