Henry hadn’t seen Addington since the book was published; indeed, they had barely communicated, only exchanging letters when the reviews appeared. Their relationship—it could not be called a friendship—had no reason to persist, but its falling away had contributed to Henry’s sense of dislocation. He supposed it was natural to feel something. When he’d imagined the terra incognita of the future, Henry had relied on Addington being there as his fellow explorer, or at least as a landmark, a co-ordinate by which he could navigate. Instead he was alone.
