“How well you knew her clothes.”
“There was a sense of fitness about her, an exquisite sense of fitness. She would not have worn her hair down with that grey dress.”
“You know I really did see her.”
“Of course. Go on. Tell me exactly what she said, word for word.”
“About my bad style.”
“About your good sense of comradeship with her.”
“She said I would write the story. Hers and Gabriel Stanton’s.”
I told him all she had said, word for word as well as I could remember it, keeping my eyes shut, speaking slowly, remembering well.
“She told me of the letters and diary, the notes, chapter headings, all she had prepared....”
I turned my head away, sank down amongst the pillows, and turned my head away. I didn’t want him to see my disappointment, to know that I had found nothing. Now I recognised my weakness, that I was spent with feverish nights and pain.