But she did not. She regretted, instead, that there was no electrical connection at present, that the refurbishment was not complete. She had a room, yes, a great one, but it wouldn’t be ready really until three days from now, and certainly she could get the men to wire up the generator to the house tomorrow so that we could heat water and she could cook, that would be fine, but she was busy this evening and there was really nothing she could do but offer us a warm fire and plenty of blankets. There was a wind-up gramophone and some old records, 78s. They were so heavy. She set the first one up for us, crackling swing. The music was very loud, but she took a cloth from the bar and explained that this was the origin of the phrase "put a sock in it." You just—the white Celtic hand stroked the inside of the horn—you just pressed a piece of cloth here, and so: all better. Her eyes twinkled. Lovers in such a situation, she murmured, might not find too much to complain about. There was fruit in the room, and she could leave us wine. Her finger trailed along the edge of the chair, like a wet tongue along dry skin.