And then her hand was on the library door and, drawing a deep breath, she went into the room.
She had expected him to be seated at his desk, but instead he was standing with his back to the empty fireplace smoking a cigarette. She tried to meet his eyes, tried to look at him as she advanced across the room, but somehow it was impossible.
She could feel the blood rising in her cheeks, she could feel herself tremble and hated her own weakness.
She wanted to be proud, aloof and indifferent – she knew instead that she was a quivering mass of sensibility.
“I want to talk to you.”
His voice was very deep and it seemed to her surprisingly hesitant.
“Yes.”
It was an effort to force the monosyllable from between her lips, but somehow she managed it.
“You know what I want to say.”
“No.”
“I
