They were the strangest four weeks of her life and she would not have traded them for anything.
They did not go anywhere. That was the rule, and it was hers, not his: nothing that anybody would remember, nothing in daylight in the town, nothing that would still be sitting in somebody's memory in July when the police came, if the police came. They stayed in the library. They stayed on the gallery. Twice they walked out along the river at four in the morning as far as the third lock and back, and once he took her into the cathedral, at two, through a door that had not been locked properly since 1953.