"Paula."
"What will you say when I tell you that I love you, that I want you?"
"You won't tell me because you will know that I don't want you to."
Her voice was a part of the wind.
"Why don't you want me to?" he was urgent—harsh with desire.
"Because it all happened twenty-five years ago."
He didn't understand.
"Because—because there are some things you can't do twice—like your book, they are the big things that create a strength of resistance. Because they are the beautiful things that belong to our dreams. Because they are of a magic fabric, into which you can weave no facts."
It was dark and he could not see her. The end of his cigarette was a bright spot in the night. The sea and the wind were the counterpoint of her voice.
He felt unreal and remote and small. A tiny strand in the vast design of destiny.