Not only that, but he is here in London. He’s a quiet person, and he says that quiet people should never become salesmen. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. No other white people within twenty miles. (What was the name he had given her that day?) He was walking beside the chair upon which appeared to be a bundle of colours. It's a long time since we met, eight years and more. She was, she guessed, close to the library. An old woman took her in. But perhaps he was right not to tell you the truth.
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