ABSTRACT
Gunfire died away: the enemy did not come; preparations for his reception languished, first misted over by Alice's vivid but diminishing anxiety, finally swallowed by the background of her boring life with Roland, the routine of the farm. Alice noticed with surprise that she was bored when something made her tax Roland with lack of interest. He flushed guiltily—itself a novel change in the level uniformity of the ardours of their passion. He tried to restore the familiarity of love. Alice was not reassured as his protestations and denials formed into a hard, smooth coat of love which fitted like a strait-jacket.
