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- Джон Фоулз
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It
won
’
t
happen
again
,
I
said
.
I
forgot
myself
.
I
can
’
t
explain
.
"
The
only
thing
is
,
if
you
ever
do
anything
like
that
I
shall
never
never
respect
you
,
I
shall
never
,
never
speak
to
you
again
.
You
understand
?
"
I
wouldn
’
t
expect
anything
else
,
I
said
.
I
was
red
as
a
beetroot
by
then
.
She
held
out
her
hand
.
I
shook
it
.
I
don
’
t
know
how
I
got
.
out
of
the
room
.
She
had
me
all
at
sixes
and
sevens
that
evening
.
Well
,
every
day
it
was
the
same
:
I
went
down
between
eight
and
nine
,
I
got
her
breakfast
,
emptied
the
buckets
,
sometimes
we
talked
a
bit
,
she
gave
me
any
shopping
she
wanted
done
(
sometimes
I
stayed
home
but
I
went
out
most
days
on
account
of
the
fresh
vegetables
and
milk
she
liked
)
,
most
mornings
I
cleaned
up
the
house
after
I
got
back
from
Lewes
,
then
her
lunch
,
then
usually
we
sat
and
talked
for
a
bit
or
she
played
the
records
I
brought
back
or
I
sat
and
watched
her
draw
;
she
got
her
own
tea
,
I
don
’
t
know
why
,
we
sort
of
came
to
an
agreement
not
to
be
together
then
.
Then
there
was
supper
and
after
supper
we
often
talked
a
bit
more
.
Sometimes
she
made
me
welcome
,
she
usually
wanted
her
walk
in
the
outer
cellar
.
Sometimes
she
made
me
go
away
as
soon
as
supper
was
over
.
I
took
photos
whenever
she
would
let
me
.
She
took
some
of
me
.
I
got
her
in
a
lot
of
poses
,
all
nice
ones
,
of
course
.
I
wanted
her
to
wear
special
clothes
,
but
I
didn
’
t
like
to
ask
.
I
don
’
t
know
why
you
want
all
these
photos
,
she
always
said
.
You
can
see
me
every
day
.
So
nothing
happened
really
.
There
were
just
all
those
evenings
we
sat
together
and
it
doesn
’
t
seem
possible
that
it
will
never
be
again
.
It
was
like
we
were
the
only
two
people
in
the
world
.
No
one
will
ever
understand
how
happy
we
were
—
just
me
,
really
,
but
there
were
times
when
I
consider
she
didn
’
t
mind
in
spite
of
what
she
said
,
if
she
thought
about
it
.
I
could
sit
there
all
night
watching
her
,
just
the
shape
of
her
head
and
the
way
the
hair
fell
from
it
with
a
special
curve
,
so
graceful
it
was
,
like
the
shape
of
a
swallowtail
.
It
was
like
a
veil
or
a
cloud
,
it
would
lie
like
silk
strands
all
untidy
and
loose
but
lovely
over
her
shoulders
.
I
wish
I
had
words
to
describe
it
like
a
poet
would
or
an
artist
.
She
had
a
way
of
throwing
it
back
when
it
had
fallen
too
much
forward
,
it
was
just
a
simple
natural
movement
.
Sometimes
I
wanted
to
say
to
her
,
please
do
it
again
,
please
let
your
hair
fall
forward
to
toss
it
back
.
Only
of
course
it
would
have
been
stupid
.
Everything
she
did
was
delicate
like
that
.
Just
turning
a
page
.
Standing
up
or
sitting
down
,
drinking
,
smoking
,
anything
.
Even
when
she
did
things
considered
ugly
,
like
yawning
or
stretching
,
she
made
it
seem
pretty
.
The
truth
was
she
couldn
’
t
do
ugly
things
.
She
was
too
beautiful
.
She
was
always
so
clean
,
too
.
She
never
smelt
anything
but
sweet
and
fresh
,
unlike
some
women
I
could
mention
.
She
hated
dirt
as
much
as
I
do
,
although
she
used
to
laugh
at
me
about
it
.
She
told
me
once
it
was
a
sign
of
madness
to
want
everything
clean
.
If
that
is
so
,
then
we
must
both
have
been
mad
.
