One day in October they went out to Lambley for tea. Suddenly they came to a halt on top of the hill. He climbed and sat on a gate, she sat on the stile. The afternoon was perfectly still, with a dim haze, and yellow sheaves glowing through. They were quiet.
“How old were you when you married?” he asked quietly.
“Twenty-two.”
Her voice was subdued, almost submissive. She would tell him now.
“It is eight years ago?”
“Yes.”
“And when did you leave him?”