‘You love your husband. You told me so. And it’s brought you back.’ Louise said sadly, ‘I suppose I do. All I can. But it’s not the kind of love you want to imagine you feel. No poisoned chalices, eternal doom, black sails. We don’t die for love, Wilson—except, of course, in books. And sometimes a boy play-acting. Don’t let’s play-act, Wilson—it’s no fun at our age.’ ‘I’m not play-acting,’ he said with a fury in which he could hear too easily the histrionic accent.
