We were speaking intimately of others, the black water isolated us from the world, Lewis's voice was affectionate, his smile the smile of an accomplice. I asked myself suddenly, 'Is everything really all over?' I had given in immediately to despair, out of pride, so as not to be like all those women who lie to themselves, and out of caution, so as to spare myself the anguish of doubt, of waiting, of disappointment. Perhaps I had been too hasty. Lewis's nonchalance, his excessive frankness, weren't natural; in reality, he's neither thoughtless nor brutal, wouldn't crudely parade his indifference if it weren't the result of a considered decision. He had decided to stop loving me. All right. But making a decision and holding to it are two different things.