He pulled her from him to kiss her on the mouth and paused, looking into her face. “You let him touch you!” John whispered back. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. There was one verse that haunted and mocked her. 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. She let them fall and sped to the companion, where she stood for a moment, the moonlight giving her a celestial touch. Wagner had just been in love when he wrote it all. Set yourself to find it out, if you will—but if you do, never dare to call yourself my friend again. Drummond, who had been about to speak, refrained. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence.
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