“Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window. There was, in fact, only one clear thought in his fevered brain: he had reached the hotel without falling down. ‘This from a man who calls himself my friend. It is the worst of talk under such social circumstances that it is always getting cut off so soon as it is beginning; and I went home that afternoon feeling I had said nothing—literally nothing—of the things I had meant to say to you and that were coursing through my head. Twenty-one, twenty-two. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth. You are the woman I love, Anna. At the precise period of this history, the Jacobite party was full of hope and confidence. Yes, I think we have thoroughly thrashed that one out.
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