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As the cold increases, the night-wind begins to blow. It rustles the curtains, making a noise like the sea: Oh that those were waves which could carry me back to you! Suddenly she was awake. She could smell the damp fields, the waterlogged moorland and the aftermath of recent rain. The action of rain on wood or stone seemed to release particular vapours wholly the province of the night in a small town.
But such sensory thoughts were overwhelmed by the rush of conversation clips; these from a day of non-stop voices that had invaded and now occupied her consciousness.
She had listened furiously all day, often fashioning questions as the listening proceeded, keeping it all going, being friendly and wise and sensible and knowing.
She could hear her tone of voice, her very articulation in the playback of her memory. That would never do. You can always rely on her. That mix of informal but simply smart that can only be bought with serious time and a clear conscience with the credit card. Anna had chosen all-over black, loose trousers with a draw string, no jewellery, but flashy sandals and make up.
