He heard the distant hooters of Stacks Gate, for seven-o'clock. It was Monday morning. He shivered a little, and with his face between her breasts pressed her soft breasts up over his ears, to deafen him.
She had not even heard the hooters. She lay perfectly still, her soul washed transparent.
"You must get up, mustn't you?" he muttered.
"What time?" came her colourless voice.
"Seven-o'clock blowers a bit sin'."
"I suppose I must."
She was resenting, as she always did, the compulsion from outside.
He sat up and looked blankly out of the window.
"You do love me, don't you?" she asked calmly.
He looked down at her.