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189 pages, Paperback
First published November 1, 1996


Katharine: I wanted to meet a man who could write such a long paper with so few adjectives.
Almasy: A thing is still a thing no matter what you place in front o fit. Big car, slow car, chauffeur-driven car, still a car.
Clifton: (joining them and joining in) A broken car?
Almasy: Still a car.
Clifton: (hands them champagne) Not much use, though.
Katharine: Love? Romantic love, platonic love, filial love -? Quite different things, surely?
Clifton: (hugging Katherine) Uxoriousness - that’s my favourite kind of love. Excessive love of one’s wife.
Almasy: (a dry smile) Now there you have me.
Almasy: Madox knows, I think. He keeps talking about Anna Karenina. I think it’s his idea of a man-to-man chat. It’s my idea of a man-to-man chat.
Katharine: This is a different world - is what I tell myself. A different life. And here I am a different wife.
Almasy: Yes. Here you are a different wife.
Katharine: (gasping) You speak so many bloody languages and you never want to talk.
They stagger on. He suddenly notices a stain of gold at her neck. It’s saffron, leaking from a silver thimble which hangs from a black ribbon.
Almasy: (overwhelmed) You’re wearing the thimble.
Katharine: Of course. You idiot. I always wear it. I’ve always loved you.
Almasy cries as he walks - huge sobs, no words - convulsed with the pain of it. They approach the cave.