"I was," answered Sheppard. It was comforting to have her there, snoring gently. It ceased to be the symbol of liberty and a remote and quite abstracted person, and became suddenly and very disagreeably the token of a large and portentous body visible and tangible. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash. “Well?” he asked her tersely. “Much as I hate rows, I’ve either got to make a stand or give in altogether.
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