‘He came. Life is so constructed, that the event does not, cannot, will not, match the expectation. That whole day he never accosted me. Thwarted affection,’ she said. ‘It must be a novel. But which one?’ She looked more closely at the section. ‘Page four hundred and fifteen. A long one.’ ‘Villette,’ I said. ‘The printed sheets have just arrived in the bindery.’
