Book I

I

           

           “Unexpectedobstacle.Pleasedon’tcometillthirtieth.Anna.”

           AllthewayfromCharingCrosstoDoverthetrainhadhammeredthewordsofthetelegramintoGeorgeDarrow’sears,ringingeverychangeofironyonitscommonplacesyllables:rattlingthemoutlikeadischargeofmusketry,lettingthem,onebyone,dripslowlyandcoldlyintohisbrain,orshaking,tossing,transposingthemlikethediceinsomegameofthegodsofmalice;andnow,asheemergedfromhiscompartmentatthepier,andstoodfacingthewind-sweptplatformandtheangryseabeyond,theyleaptoutathimasiffromthecrestofthewaves,stungandblindedhimwithafreshfuryofderision.

           “Unexpectedobstacle.Pleasedon’tcometillthirtieth.Anna.”

           Shehadputhimoffattheverylastmoment,andforthesecondtime:puthimoffwithallhersweetreasonableness,andforoneofherusual“good”reasons—hewascertainthatthisreason,liketheother,(thevisitofherhusband’suncle’swidow)wouldbe“good”!Butitwasthatverycertaintywhichchilledhim.Thefactofherdealingsoreasonablywiththeircaseshedanironiclightontheideathattherehadbeenanyexceptionalwarmthinthegreetingshehadgivenhimaftertheirtwelveyearsapart.

           Theyhadfoundeachotheragain,inLondon,somethreemonthspreviously,atadinnerattheAmericanEmbassy,andwhenshehadcaughtsightofhimhersmilehadbeenlikearedrosepinnedonherwidow’smourning.

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