«Priscilla. Yes.»
«You mustn't blame yourself too much.»
«No-«
«Where did Francis find her? Where was she lying when he found her?»
«I don't know.»
«You mean you didn't ask?»
«No. I suppose she was in bed.»
«I would have wanted to know-all the details-I think-just to picture it-Did you see her dead?»
«No.»
«Didn't you have to identify her?»
«No.»
«Someone must have done.»
«Roger did.»
«Odd about identifying dead people, recognizing them. I hope I don't ever have to-«He's keeping her prisoner somewhere, I know he is.»
«Really, Bradley, you seem to be living in some sort of literary dream. Everything is so much duller and more mixed-up than you imagine, even the awful things are.»
«He locked her in her room before.»
«Of course he didn't. The girl was romancing.»
«Do you really not know where she is?»
«Really.»
«Why hasn't she written to me?»
«She's no good at writing letters, never has been. Anyway give her time. She will write. Perhaps it's just a rather difficult letter to compose!»
«Rachel, you don't know what's inside me, you don't know what it's like to be me, to be where I am. You see it's a matter of absolute certainty, of knowing your own mind and somebody else's with absolute certainty. It's something completely steady and old, as if it's always been, ever since the world began. That's why what you say is simply nonsense, it doesn't make any sense to me, it's a sort of gabbling. She understands, she spoke this language with me at once. We love each other.»
«Bradley dear, do try to come back to reality-«This is reality. Oh God, supposing she were dead-«Oh don't be silly. You make me sick.»
«Rachel, she isn't dead, is she?»
In a way, the truth was that I did not. I could attach no precise events to the idea of Rachel. Here memory
