She had followed a bobbing white hat and gray jacket until she reached the Euston Road corner of Tottenham Court Road, and there, by the name on a bus and the cries of a conductor, she made a guess of her way. ‘That is not your affair. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. Things hung for a moment in an awkward silence. Altogether different. It is as if my lips had been sealed about them.
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