That too was part of a machine from which she had not, for all her 'feelings' and her 'principles', the spirit or the courage really to escape.

He could go back and take her in his arms. If only he knew how to do this. But they had lost the language of their affections, they had lost the style.

I can't see how anything can ever happen to us — I mean, I feel as if, if we leave this place, we shall crumble to pieces.

Oh God, that conversation last night or this morning or whenever that devil-ridden scrap of nightmare had been. How could two rational beings go on and on simply saying the same awful things to each other week after week, month after month?