They were going up the slope into Waterloo Station. Accounts were now always where he could put his hand on them. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. He made it impossible not to respond, his arms tightening deliciously around hers. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. A fortnight passed, then a month. “YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. ‘Where was I? Oh yes. See paragraph 1.
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