There’s always friction, conflict, unwilling concessions. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. “Let’s go home. It’s true. Do you know, Annabel, that you are my wife. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road.
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