He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. How did you get into this house?’ He shrugged. The smell of laundry detergent was noticeable, the bed sheets very tightly stretched across the bed, tucked in on three sides. He took his social pleasures once a year in Hong-Kong, after Easter.
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