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           Aperfectlyneattable;acurtainpulledmethodicallystraight;apaper-knifedividingaFrenchvolume--nobody,Ithought,everchangestheattitudeinwhichwesawthemfirst,ortheclothes.Herehehassatinthischair,intheseclothes,eversincewefirstmet.Herewasfreedom;herewasintimacy;thefirelightbrokeoffsomeroundappleonthecurtain.Therewetalked;sattalking;sauntereddownthatavenue,theavenuewhichrunsunderthetrees,underthethick-leavedmurmuringtrees,thetreesthatarehungwithfruit,whichwehavetroddensooftentogether,sothatnowtheturfisbareroundsomeofthosetrees,roundcertainplaysandpoems,certainfavouritesofours--theturfistroddenbarebyourincessantunmethodicalpacing.IfIhavetowait,Iread;ifIwakeinthenight,Ifeelalongtheshelfforabook.Swelling,perpetuallyaugmented,thereisavastaccumulationofunrecordedmatterinmyhead.NowandthenIbreakoffalump,Shakespeareitmaybe,itmaybesomeoldwomancalledPeck;andsaytomyself,smokingacigaretteinbed,"That’sShakespeare.That’sPeck"--withacertaintyofrecognitionandashockofknowledgewhichisendlesslydelightful,thoughnottobeimparted.SowesharedourPecks,ourShakespeares;comparedeachother’sversions;allowedeachother’sinsighttosetourownPeckorShakespeareinabetterlight;andthensankintooneofthosesilenceswhicharenowandagainbrokenbyafewwords,asifafinroseinthewastesofsilence;andthenthefin,thethought,sinksbackintothedepths,spreadingrounditalittlerippleofsatisfaction,content.