But this time something had changed. On the two previous occasions when she had conceived a burning passion for someone, she’d never been quite sure the other party would respond; she’d probably even known from the outset he wouldn’t. In Thomas she had glimpsed the possibility, not only of a response, but of a fire identical to her own. How had she seen this? Who knows . . . ? Each morning (or every other morning sometimes, for they needed to catch their breath and rest a bit, no doubt), they would run into each other in Sorge, and sometimes in another part of town, for there was no need any longer to focus on the precise spot where they’d first met. Fate, having slipped into gear, was easing up. Anna would go out, pick up a couple of items of shopping and then stroll about, going as far as the café terrace facing the countryside or the town hall opposite. Thomas, meanwhile, would have gone to see a mechanic on the outskirts of town or to visit a friend, but it was most unusual if, some time around eleven, he didn’t pop up all of a sudden, even in some obscure side street, walking toward her. Without remarking on their chance encounter, they would have a coffee somewhere and talk about the town, their activities, what they were reading, but never of personal matters, and never face to face, seated together, side by side, at the small round bistro table.