It was finished by the end of that year, each character having asserted itself pronouncedly in my imagination. She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth. He began munching his water-chestnuts—a small brown radish-shaped vegetable, with the flavour of coconut—that grow along the river brims. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. Sweet sixteen year old Shari, who never once figured out the morning sleep hangovers she suffered monthly. “Your name and address in his pocket was no delusion,” he said sharply.
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