I don’t know if I express myself clearly. Twelve years ago! It is an awful retrospect. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. She surveyed accommodation that seemed at first merely austere, and became more and more manifestly inadequate as the moments fled by. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. ‘You mean I should give myself a dressingdown? Very well. F. We can be friends again.
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