So the newsreel ran through the Saint's mind and finished, and the projection room was dark and silent again.
And he was still looking at Barbara Sinclair, lifting the cigarette to his mouth again, with his eyes very blue and quiet and unchanging.
He was very sorry, more sorry than it was easily endurable to he, and it was all so stupid and wasteful; but that was how things really happened, and sometimes you had to know it.
The clock in his head went on all the time.
And it was no damn good giving her a second thought, because you couldn't change anything.
Because life was like that, and sometimes you were stuck with it.
And stories just didn't end that way, because there was always a miracle at the last moment; but this wasn't a story.
And that was that.
He said: "It doesn't make very much difference, because I know already."
"What do you know?" she asked, looking at him with empty eyes.