Still there is this sense of missed opportunity. Maybe there is nothing, ever, that can equal the recollection of having been young together. Maybe it's as simple as that. He was the person she loved at her most optimistic moment.
The triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.
Here is the stout, practical heart that beats beneath; here are the watery lights of her being- deep pink lights, red-gold lights, glittering, unsteady; lights that gather and disperse; here are the depths of Her, the heart beneath the heart; the untouchable essence that a man ( Him of all people !)dreams of, yearns toward, searches for so desperately at night. Here it is in daylight, in Irie's arms.