” She could practically hear the self-deprecating thoughts racing across his mind, the failed hours of rehearsed lines. The slow stars circled on to the moment of their meeting. ” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch.
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