"But you saw her?"
"Just for a moment."
"'Just for a moment.' Those were the words I had used."
He stopped writing, drew a line under the last words, blotted the page and threw it face-downwards on the pile of manuscript. Then for the first time our eyes met, and I saw it was only by biting his lips and gripping the arms of the chair that he could keep control over himself.
"You'd like some tea," he said, in the manner of a man recalling his mind from a distance. "Can you reach the bell?"
"Is this the end of the chapter?" I asked as he tidied the pile of manuscript and bored it with a paper fastener.
"It's the end of everything."
"How far does it carry you?"
"To your parting from Sylvia."
"Present time, in fact?"