Then it was that, above all, she felt how much she had missed in the gaps and blanks and absent answers—how much she had had to dispense with: it was black darkness now, save for this little wild red flare. So much as that she saw and possessed. One of the lovers was quaking somewhere out of town, and the other was quaking just where he stood. This was vivid enough, and after an instant she knew it was all she wanted. She wanted no detail, no fact—she wanted no nearer vision of discovery or shame. 'When was your telegram? Do you mean you sent it from here?' She tried to do the young woman at Knightsbridge.
'Oh yes, from here—several weeks ago. Five, six, seven'—he was confused and impatient,—'don't you remember?'
'Remember?' she could scarcely keep out of her face, at the word, the strangest of smiles.
But the way he didn't catch what it meant was perhaps even stranger still. 'I mean, don't you keep the old ones?'
'For a certain time.'
'But how long?'
