He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. She wrote it down. That shining slope of snow, and how we talked of death! We might have died! Even when we are old, when we are rich as we may be, we won’t forget the tune when we cared nothing for anything but the joy of one another, when we risked everything for one another, when all the wrappings and coverings seemed to have fallen from life and left it light and fire. She worried for her father in Mantua, 28 hoping that he was still alive. He hated the taste of it. Let me lie in Willesden churchyard. ‘You do not like it?’ ‘That is hardly the point. Quite soon, after we were married—it was just within a year—I formed a friendship with the wife of a friend, a woman eight years older than myself. The boat rocked violently with the struggle.
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