"He and I were once ..." Viola hesitated, teasing out the fringe of her black and silver stole.
"I see," Dulcie said, but of course she did not see. What was it they were once, or had been once to each other? Lovers? Colleagues? Editor and assistant editor? Or had he merely seized her in his arms in some dusty library in a convenient corner by the card index catalogues one afternoon in spring? Impossible to tell, from Viola's guarded hint. How irritating it sometimes was, the delicacy of women!
No Fond Return of Love, Barbara Pym