He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. "In Canton. ‘Étes-vous Francais?’ Her eyes, he noted, followed from himself to Hilary and back again, but she did not speak. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. ‘Go on up to the boy, my dear. Rage flooded her at his intent, but she controlled it. She looked about and discovered a door partially hidden by shadow. But all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London.
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