He was lucky. There were enormous, fantastic complications to every aspect of this. But he was very lucky.

Her mouth came up, meeting his gently. It must be the first time for her, he thought, conscious at once of the shy assent of her lips. How warmly, how sweetly she does it … Then Esther drew back, and smiled, and murmured: “You said you were going to kiss me.”

He grinned ruefully. “I must have said a lot of things … Oh, Esther … You’re so lovely … What have they done to you?”

“I’ll tell you … It’s wonderful to be able to talk to you.”

“It’s wonderful to hear it. Your voice is – is like singing.” He kissed her again. “I said I was going to kiss you. I didn’t know it would be like this.”

“I used to wonder what happened to the noses … Your arms are so strong,” she went on softly. “I never felt arms before.”

“Really never?”

Turning slightly from him, she said: “Why did you ask that?”

He was momentarily confused by some wariness in her voice, and in the feel of her body. “No reason … Because you’re so lovely, I suppose.”

“Then you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

She seemed to be sinking her head lower on his chest, as if afraid of their eyes meeting. Her voice, no longer confident, was suddenly troubled and tense.

“That I should have said: ‘I never felt arms before. Except.’”

“Except what?” he asked, puzzled when she stopped on the single word.

“Except what I have to tell you.” There was something in her tone that was like a cold breath entering the room. He knew then that she was on the verge of an appalling revelation – that this was the missing word, leering at them both over the near horizon. He did not want to know about it – he only wanted to hold her and kiss her. But that was not to be their pattern.

“What did they do to you?” he asked again.

“All things.” Harry noticed, as she spoke, that Esther still had a trace of brogue in her voice. It had outlived and survived ten years of silence, as everything about her – her loveliness, her warmth and softness – had outlived the horror of her infirmity. “We can talk now,” said Esther, bravely determined, her head coming up again. “She’s out – some welcome home party or other. There are things you have to know.”

“But why did you do it, Esther? Why did you pretend? And what happened? You were blind, weren’t you?”

“Oh yes, I was blind and deaf and dumb. Then there was a – a shock.”

“What sort of shock?”

He was watching her closely, holding her at arm’s length, and he saw creeping into her face a tide of shame and distress that almost answered him. Immediately something clicked into place – the forgotten phrase that Jack Lett had used. Jack Lett had said, coarsely: “You’re another one who’d like to lay her.” Another – that was the word he had been groping for, ever since.