“
Yvette practised the ars moriendi; I had long known that she would. The day before she died, her spirit intact, she listened with a look of beatitude on her simplified face to the story that I had brought with me from Leamington Spa, where I had just moved, to the Brighton hospice, where she lay in a room that formed a hard crystal of light, exposed to the raucous and merciless spring. It was a love story, and when I had finished relating it to her, and had sat quietly with her for several hours, she finally spoke out of the suffused silence, ‘You are now going to leave.’ Then, in her own way, she gave me her blessing: ‘You know how I feel. You know how I feel. Nothing has changed. Nothing has changed. All the very best. All the very best.’ I bent over her and kissed her on the lips several times, her lips reaching mine each time before mine touched hers.
”
”