ANNE. A letter.
LATIMER. With many thanks for your kind hospitality, yours sincerely.
ANNE. Yours very sincerely.
LATIMER. P.S.—I shall never see you again.
ANNE. P.S.—I shall never forget.
LATIMER. Ah, but you must forget....
ANNE (after a pause). Is it better?
LATIMER (lazily). It is just the same. It will always be the same. It is unthinkable that anything different should ever happen. In a hundred years’ time we shall still be like this. You will be a little tired, perhaps; your fingers will ache; but I shall be lying here, quite, quite happy.
[175]ANNE. You shall have another minute—no more.
LATIMER. Then I shall go straight to the chemist and ask for three pennyworth of Anne’s fingers. (They are silent for a little. Then she stops and listens.) What is it?