“Later, she would reflect on the fact, and wonder if there was something wrong with her that, even when her heart was breaking, a small part of her stood outside the emotional truth of the moment, taking notes. Later still, when she'd become better acquainted with Graham Greene, she would realize it was merely the splinter of ice that all writers hold in their hearts.

She reached slowly into her pocket to stroke her notebook. Thinking, thinking...

She stood quickly as a spark of animation fired her from within. Her breaths had quickened and her head was swimming with shimmery threads of ideas that needed braiding together. She needed to think, to plot.”