For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. “Anna!” he exclaimed hoarsely. She found a clean sweatshirt and soft pajama pants, glad to trade the wet for the dry. Since morning he had become fanatical; the atoms of common sense no longer functioned in the accustomed groove. After these dinners they would have a walk, usually to the Thames Embankment to see the two sweeps of river on either side of Waterloo Bridge; and then they would part at Westminster Bridge, perhaps, and he would go on to Waterloo.
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