‘I love you, Louise,’ he said again. ‘How old are you, Wilson?’ ‘Thirty-two.’ ‘A very young thirty-two, and I am an old thirty-eight.’ ‘It doesn’t matter.’ ‘The poetry you read, Wilson, is too romantic. It does matter. It matters much more than love. Love isn’t a fact like age and religion …’ Across the bay the clouds came up: they massed blackly over Bullom and then tore up the sky, climbing vertically: the wind pressed the two of them back against the station. ‘Too late,’ Louise said, ‘we’re caught.’ ‘How long will this last?’ ‘Half an hour.’ A handful of rain was flung in their faces, and
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