’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face. Then he looked across at Mrs Sindlesham. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. Think of those days in Paris. My dear! we’ve had so many moments! I used to go over the times we’d had together, the things we’d said—like a rosary of beads. For the most part these were detached people: men practising the plastic arts, young writers, young men in employment, a very large proportion of girls and women—self-supporting women or girls of the student class. ‘Let it fall!’ ‘Brute!’ she spat, struggling, and he knew at once he had guessed aright. "She travelled alone; and she is the purest woman God ever permitted to inhabit the earth.
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