“Sometimes, in the autumn, I have the strangest feeling of yearning. It wells up from the depths of me, or perhaps from outside, from the earth’s turning, the sun on its journey away from us, the sea already cold. It’s as if I knew, as if I’ve always known in some small part of myself, some small place where I kept my disbelief, where I kept my hope, that the letter was coming.”

“I have often said to people that I am not a person who carries regrets. The word regret becomes egret without the r and an egret is a bird nothing like a crow. It has a t. It is an odd word. It sounds sad. It sounds like you lost everything. I am not a person who carries regrets. Perhaps they carry me.”

“A second novel by M.A. Bright? Well, that would be extraordinary, wouldn’t it?”

“The door to the carriage in front of us opened then and there was a hush that preceded the beautiful young man who stepped into the light. He commanded every speck of attention in the room. He was smaller than Mr Waters, not much taller than Helen or me, and it contributed to an impression of boyishness you noticed and then forgot, because you then remembered him as tall until you saw him again.”

“Until a week ago I had been unable to keep a serving job, and now I was writing letters for the Prince of Wales. I had a sense of destiny, or what I thought was destiny. ”

“When Mr Barlow smiled, it was a rare gift, as if he were taking you in as his one and only confidante. Perhaps he was like that with all his authors but it made me feel as if I were the only one.”