The home is decorated and personalized; it takes on the soul of the people who live there and becomes the mirror of their spirit. Yet in the deepest sense, the body is the most intimate place. Your body is your clay home; your body is the only home that you have in this universe.

That night belonged to the part of herself that continued to inhabit the windmill long after she was living with Charlie in the renovated cottage; the part of her that belonged to nobody. This part of her existed still, in fact, inside the windmill – it had stayed in there when the rest of her moved into the cottage to be looked after; to forget.

She knew, from the way they looked at her, that this had been a mistake. They did not want to cry. But she felt that the little line of white, somewhat ridged with smoked purple, and all that cream-shot saffron, would never drift across any western sky except that in back of this house. The rain would drum with as sweet a dullness nowhere but here.

Minha! Eu tinha a minha própria casa!