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After Hugh got sick and went back to England, Amy was content to live without a man. It was partly that the afterglow lasted, in remembered scenes that replayed ceaselessly, illuminating resignation. And then, the old friendly-fun-sophisticated love affair had always ended wretchedly for her: half-love, not enough to marry on, too much to break off, dwindling in half-life for ages. When friends reported their romantic syndromes"Amy, I fucked it up the same way again!" -she listened with the swamp closing over her head. How could people manufacture the causes of their suffering ? She rarely spoke of Hugh, and her pride increased in isolation. She promised herself: no man until he's right. "You can do it, lead a chaste life," she told herself. "You've had the disadvantages of being Irish Catholic, might as well get the good of it too." No more squandering Sunday on a walk in the park with some nice guy, when she could be writing. No more staring at the big black telephone. Then she met Francis. It was the graduate Shakespeare class, no hey nonny no, but a tired collection of Ph.D. commuters. One night a tall young man with redgold hair and beard livened it by describing Olivier's Othello in an enthusiastic rush of words, big gestures. Afterwards, waiting for the elevator, the young man was doing a slow heel-to-toe dance, his blue eyes abstracted. Amy spoke to him. He went into more detail. He spoke well. Amy tried to imagine the long powerful line of a great performance, like the path of a night plane shot in time delay.