'What have I against girls?' he went on. 'My own mother was a girl, once. And I dare say the same must be true of you and all belonging to us.'

As they carried on along and met more people Furlong did and did not know, he found himself asking was there any point in being alive without helping one another? Was it possible to carry on along through all the years, the decades, through an entire life, without once being brave enough to go against what was there and yet call yourself a Christian, and face yourself in the mirror?

What would life be like, he wondered, if they were given time to think and reflect over things? Might their lives be different or much the same – or would they just lose the run of themselves?

What most tormented him was not so much how she'd been left in the coal shed or the stance of the Mother Superior; the worst was how the girl had been handled while he was present and how he'd allowed that and had not asked about her baby - the one thing she had asked him to do - and how he had taken the money and left her there at the table with nothing before her and the breast milk leaking under the little cardigan and staining her blouse, and how he'd gone on, like a hypocrite, to Mass. 

Mais pourquoi l'amour ? Il ne m'a rien promis, et moi-même je ne demande que la beauté. Il n'y a plus de beauté puisqu'il n'y a plus rien.

Tout est difficile. Me dire, il est insignifiant intellectuellement, personnalité conformiste, etc ... ne sert à rien puisque ce n'est pas pour cela que je suis attachée à lui, mais par ce lien de peau indéfinissable, dont le manque est à crever.

Qu'est ce qu'aimer un homme? Qu'il soit là, et faire l'amour, rêver, et il revient, il fait l'amour. Tout n'est qu'attente.