My loves have always been seared with this singing, this singing written by death, the way some lands have always been crippled by war.

He offered his love ... she could not bother,She gives her love to the other! The other!

She rose too, not as if to meet him or to flee from him, but quietly, as though the worst of the task were done and she had only to wait; so quietly that, as he came close, her outstretched hands acted not as a check but as a guide to him.

She was limp and pathetic and woozy and I loved her, I realised, even more because I knew how completely it was doomed.