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She turned the television off. The wings stopped. ” She looked at him; his face, downcast and in profile, was handsome and strong. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. You hear what I say, Quilt?" he added, looking at Jack. She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse. Then fury claimed her and she could no longer pretend. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven.
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