She had lain there looking at him like that, and still she had not answered his question, and he said again, still stroking his dressing gown over his heart to signify his pain, “Will I call the doctor then, or not? I think I’ll call him anyway, for myself. Do you want me to call him?” And Rose had said, “Yes.” “Yes,” she said, and the one word came out quickly, like a sigh or a laugh, like a sound of recognition and acceptance and mockery. “Yes,” she said, but only once, as though she was finally giving in to something and accepting something that she had not wanted to give in to or accept yet.

He had gone then and called the doctor, and he had sat down in the sitting room to wait, and he had wished there were someone to bring him a cup of tea, and of course, when the doctor arrived and went into the room, all there was left to say was that it was over for Rose.