“Kiss me, Anton, kiss me,” she pleaded.

He kissed her, but she knew he could not touch her. His arms were round her, but they had not got her. She could feel his mouth upon her, but she was not at all compelled by it.

“Kiss me,” she whispered, in acute distress, “kiss me.”

And he kissed her as she bade him, but his heart was hollow. She took his kisses, outwardly. But her soul was empty and finished.

Looking away, she saw the delicate glint of oats dangling from the side of the stack, in the moonlight, something proud and royal, and quite impersonal.

She had been proud with them, where they were, she had been also. But in this temporary warm world