She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. She fought him at first, screaming at him, but he did not relent. ‘Yes, I know. “No!” he said aloud at last.
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