I pressed my cheek to his bare shoulder; he was gently stroking my arm, and I held myself tight against him. It was his hand on my arm, it was his warmth, his smell, and I no longer had either pride or caution. I found his mouth again, and as my hand crept over his warm belly my body burned with desire. He, too, desired me, and between us desire had always been love. Something was beginning again that night. I was sure of it. It all happened so fast that I remained dumbfounded.

I spoke first. 'Good-night,' I said.

'Good-night,' said Lewis, turning towards the wall.

A desperate anger gripped my throat. 'He has no right to do this,' I murmured. Not for an instant had he given me his presence; he had treated me as a pleasure machine. Even if he didn't love me any more, he shouldn't have done that. I got out of bed; I hated his warmth. I went into the living-room, sat down, and cried myself out. I simply couldn't understand it. How could our bodies, those bodies which had loved each other so well, how could they have become such total strangers? He said, 'I'm so happy, I'm so proud.' He said, 'Anne!' He gave me his heart. With his hands, his lips, with his whole body. That was yesterday. All those nights the memories of which were still burning inside me - under the Mexican blanket, in our berth rocked by the Mississippi, in the shadow of mosquito netting, in front of a fire which smelled of resin - all those nights. Would they never come to life again?