then he lazed back , laughing by her side , motionless in the sun . he used to drink the cheap , warm wine straight from the bottle . you first , he told her , I want the bottle neck to be smothered in your kisses . he made her laugh so much that , sometimes , she spilt it down her dress and left a purple stain on the piqu&amp;eacute; collar . when I &apos;m rich , he cried , I &apos;ll buy you champagne , nothing but champagne . you can bath in it , drink it , spill it down your dress and it will n&apos;t even leave a mark . with these words he sprang to his feet and cried into the swirling blue , I love her , I love her , I love her &amp;hellip; it &apos;s you I love , you silly girl &amp;hellip; Anna and Hugo &amp;hellip; Anna and Hugo ... until their names echoed and trembled to the distant hills . he chased her barefoot over the scented grass and thistledown until they fell panting into each other s arms on the ground . then he gasped for breath , his body humped and contorted as he clutched at his own throat in convulsive agony and desperation . between the coughing and the retching , he begged her : do n&apos;t look , Anna , please do n&apos;t look at me , and she would slump to the grass until it was over . sometimes , there was blood even on the flowers , on the daisies which had , already , pink-tipped petals . the days , the weeks , the months rushed by , express train-like but with no destination , no beginning and no end . he used to walk to the studio where he was learning to paint . to save money , he told her , so I can buy you presents . he bought her books , flowers , bits of cracked and broken junk which he thought pretty , and sometimes clothes . the mackintosh was the last thing he ever gave her . for once I &apos;m being practical , he said . after all , it &apos;s meant to rain in England . he walked everywhere and the endless exercise made him hungry . she spent twice as much as he saved to appease the hunger and they both laughed when the false economy dawned on them . she bought him fruit , meat , cheese and eggs and together they strived to cook them over the gas-ring in her bedroom with the help of a French cookery book . their faces were smudged , their foreheads sweaty , their hands garnished with garlic and , laughing , they would decide to cook the English way and fall back on fish and chips . in the winter , the snow helped to hide the barrack grimness of their surroundings . it lay like petals on the deserted garden patch and even transfigured the limp lines of washing into dazzling obelisks . Hugo &apos;s cough seemed better in the snow . he would gather handfuls off the trees , kiss it , eat it and chase her laughing and crying down the street , hurling it into her streaming hair . he painted her room for her as white as the snow he said . he stripped off the sad wallpaper , almost angrily , and in its place put up fresh and merry whiteness . she made him hang his paintings on the walls and could scarcely believe the brilliant transformation . this is the first time I &apos;ve ever hung a painting , he told her smiling , and probably the last . she liked best the pictures of Provence , the fishermen with black nets drying on platinum sand , the baskets of rainbow fish which still seemed to squirm in the sun-glitter . she liked the lonely stretches of Camargue wasteland , wild , melancholy and mysterious ; she liked the vastness of the rice-fields , once mistral-torn and mosquito-ridden . she loved the pictures of housewives , brawny and good-humoured , haggling with their Midi accent over the monk fish , the grey mullet , the tiny squid and the lobsters while the naked starfish sprawled dead in the sun . even dead , the colours were dazzling - silver sea bream ; slithery , bright pink demoiselles ; the angler with mad antennae-like hooks sprouting from its huge head ; the gigantic turbot and the sleek , black dogfish with its greyhound head . when she looked at his paintings , she could hear the auction bids and smell the fish and pebbles , she could feel the sticky salt in the women &apos;s hair and the tired sweat on the men &apos;s faces . over and over again , he tried to paint a picture of Anna . he could n&apos;t . I love you too much , he explained . anyway , I can only paint fish and peasants . he made her look sad , he made her look happy but somehow he never captured the startling strangeness which was Anna . in the winter evenings , she sat for him hour after hour but , in the end , he hurled the canvas from the easel , cursing himself and his lack of talent . she reassured him , told him the light was wrong , that he was tired or hungry , that she loved the picture and it was more real than she was herself . then he burst into laughter and asked : do you mind if I turn you into a fish ? and , in half the time , he blotted out her likeness and brought fiercely to life , the sea-glimmer , sunlight , fishwives and the sparkle of salt water on sealy skin and delicate fins . his excuse was always the same . you see I love you too much , I can n&apos;t paint the woman I love , the only woman I &apos;ve ever loved . the only one ? she asked him . he looked at her through flickering lashes , half smiling . the only one , he repeated . the others were just games . what do you call games , Hugo ? then he looked guilty like a child caught stealing an apple . well , he said kissing her cheek , I knew them in the Biblical sense . they were nothing to me , just nothing . Biblical sense or no , she felt sad and jealous and questioned him closely as to their names and faces . whereupon he swept her into his arms and carried her struggling to the bed . there , he said as he knelt on the floor by her side , on bended knee I swear it . the only one , it &apos;s you . he lay his cheek upon hers , silent for a while , then he whispered in her hair : Anna , make love with me , real love &amp;hellip; please do . before she could think or answer him , he was a tangled heap on the floor , a spitting , gasping heap , half-sobbing , half-human . she ran out to get some water and , when she came back , she found him lying on her bed , laughing . so I have to make do with this , do I ? he held up her portrait still wet and sticky . it &apos;s prettier than you , you brutal angel . there &apos;s not so much of it though , she answered truthfully . thereupon he jumped up and said that he was hungry . and all because of you , he told her as he kissed her , clung to her and led her away . she was glad it had n&apos;t happened . she did n&apos;t want to be a game , not even in the Biblical sense . anyway , he was too ill and she loved him too much . her mother enjoyed having Hugo in the house , her father resented him . he did n&apos;t like to see other people happy around him . it was n&apos;t his methodist upbringing , it was just his nature . he was like a damp cartridge ; however much force or pressure was brought to bear , nothing happened . he never exploded , either joyfully or angrily . he was simply an unfriendly maggot that you might find under a stone . she and Hugo had a secret language which they spoke with their eyes and their hands , and many was the mad , snuffed-out laughter conversation they carried on behind her father &apos;s disapproving newspaper . he was only concerned that Hugo should pay his rent , not put French coins in the gas-meter slot and not seduce his daughter . the third condition was the least important of the three . sometimes Anna wondered if he knew that she was n&apos;t his daughter . but of course he knew and that made it worse . he did n&apos;t mind , he did n&apos;t want children of his own or despise his wife &apos;s illegitimate one . it was this complete indifference to everything , whether mental or physical , that astonished and terrified Anna . on both counts he was a miser . he gave nothing , he took nothing but he resented everything . she could recall Hugo &apos;s farewell so clearly . it was so vivid that she often wondered if it had not occurred the day before and whether it were not just another good-night with another greeting in the morning . it had been July , almost three years to a day since he first appeared in their lives . we must pretend it &apos;s for a day , he said , because we know it &apos;s only a month and then we &apos;ll be together for the rest of our lives . a day , she repeated slowly , but even a day without you is a lifetime . while I &apos;m away , he said , you must write to me every single day and I &apos;ll write to you . you know I can n&apos;t live without you so promise me you will . she did n&apos;t even bother to promise - it was so unnecessary . do n&apos;t come to the station , he begged her , I &apos;ll burst into tears and make a fool of myself . nevertheless , she had gone and each tormented minute had been a tiny stretch of happiness . he leaned from the carriage window and clung to her , unaware of the selfish noise and activity of a boat-train crowd and they - unaware of him . he begged her , made her swear to go on loving him for ever and never to see , touch or talk to another man . the whistle went and she brushed the tears from his eyes with her hand . keep one , he said smiling . I have my own , she replied . the train shuddered , gathered speed and was gone . the blurred heads of holiday-makers leaned out , waving and kissing to the platform of spectators , to the litter of squash cartons , ice-cream wrappers and separation . she walked away as in a trance , walking always forward but always left behind . no one noticed her . on a boat-train station , people look sad or happy - there is no in between . she went home and looked at her face in the glass . it was like a mask of granite which can not melt , break or be crushed . it seemed to have no reason for being there at all - simply a memento of the past . she assured herself that in a month everything would begin again as sweetly and smoothly as winding a clock . she wrote to him every day for a week and every single day she waited for his answer . there was no question of his letters becoming colder , wearier or less affectionate . there were no letters - it was as simple as that . the postman came to know her face quite well - it was white and drawn and seemed scarcely to exist . he gave her gas bills , butcher bills and canvassing pamphlets but her fingers sorted through them hungrily and she closed the door and thanked him . she made the lodgers &apos; beds , went to work and returned at night to wait for the morning . after a week , she stopped writing letters altogether and after a month she sobbed herself to sticky sleep each night and woke to the swollen-eyed dawn . from that time forth , she lived in the past and three years &apos; recollection offers a sort of companionship although it has no future . she walked down the streets where they had walked together , went to the same pubs and caf&amp;eacute;s , visited the same museums and cinemas and even took bus-rides into the country where each blade of grass reminded her of him . she wondered if he were ill , she wondered if he were dead and suddenly she realized that she was the ill one , the dead one , the idiot and the possessed . her father was glad it had all ended ; her mother was too busy to comment . find yourself a nice steady man , he told her , not a choking , arty-crafty foreigner . and he returned to his evening paper in justified and contented humour , pleased that he &apos;d been right all along and that his day was over . 