"It rather struck me—I don't know much about it—but I fancied it was on somewhat similar lines."
"What sort of lines?"
"The old story—starting anew from the very beginning of everything—nothing to do with anything else, past, present or to come."
"Of course he would be the same.... But now tell me—we've hardly had ten words yet, what with Madge and shopping and your silly illness and one thing and another. You say he's got to twenty?"
"Thereabouts."
"And he hasn't moved since—you know what I mean?"
"That isn't quite clear."
"What isn't there clear about it?"
"He thinks he's moving—he hopes to move—forward again."
She stopped to stare at me. Already the few days' sun had softly browned her natural milky pallor.