’ ‘Get on, Hilary, do,’ begged Lucilla. It was Celeste’s idea. He found, however, that now the time had come he utterly lacked the courage to attempt any such speech. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. She took a deep breath. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. The twists in his brain had suddenly straightened out; he was normal, wholly himself; and he knew now exactly what he had done.
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