m.m.

Almost, she was happy. Or perhaps she recognized that this was how happiness felt. All one needed was a pretext. If there were no pretext, one needed an analogue. But Ruth, walking endlessly, was content to experience the unlooked-for exhilaration, to hope, to beg, that one day, someday, she might find a reason for feeling as she did, buoyant, serene, anesthetized against everyday hurts. She imagined, wrongly, that being in love was like this. With love comes seriousness, loss of autonomy, responsibility without power. Love, Ruth thought wistfully, love returned, must surely be this state of sublime ease. She even thought that before she left for France she might get in touch with Richard. But perhaps he would think she wanted the money back? Regretfully she abandoned the idea; the bright day darkened a little. Without love there can be no reason for hope.

At the age of 73, writes Grove, 'her deepest pleasures now were: reading over breakfast; reading over coffee after lunch with Alec; getting into a warm pre-supper bath with a book; and reading in bed.'

Of all things in the world, contention was most sweet to her (though why it is hard to imagine, for it always cost her tears, headaches, a day or two in bed, acute emotion). . .