‘Wednesday?’ ‘Would Thursday do?’ ‘Yes,’ she said, and I could almost imagine disappointment in a monosyllable—so our pride deceives us. ‘Then I’ll meet you at the Café Royal at one.’ ‘It’s good of you,’ she said, and I could tell from her voice that she meant it. ‘Until Thursday.’ ‘Until Thursday.’ I sat with the telephone receiver in my hand and I looked at hate like an ugly and foolish man whom one did not want to know. I dialled her number, I must have caught her before she had time to leave the telephone, and said, ‘Sarah. Tomorrow’s all right. I’d forgotten something. Same place. Same
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