“I asked, in as neutral a tone as possible. “Oh, yes. That nice Mr Fairlie gave me a lift.” I felt there was nothing else I needed to know. What was to follow I knew already. Besides, I was finding it difficult to maintain my side of the conversation. I felt curiously abstracted, as if I were taking in too little oxygen. I was sitting in Betsy's flat, without altogether remembering how I had got there. She had invited me for coffee, and I had gone, though I had had a strong impulse to re...fuse her invitation. Yet I had no reason for doing so. What I really wanted was to stay at home, in bed, if possible. I wanted the coming winter to enclose me, so that I could not be seen. That was my instinctive wish: that no one should see me. “He's very nice, isn't he?” said Betsy. “Very easy to talk to.” I had never found him easy to talk to. To listen to, perhaps, or rather to tease out what he was not saying, matters I could supply for myself, in the shape of those domestic details for which I was hungry.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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