She was glad of the lake. It’s soft; dark water helped to soothe and quiet her mind. It took her away from the noisy, squawkish world of the cat-walk and let her lie untroubled at its side, listening only to the gentle lapping of its waves. 　　She felt at peace. Alone. Unhindered and free. Free to do nothing but watch and listen and dream. 　　London, Paris, New York - names, only names. Names that had once meant excitement, then boredom, then frustration then slavery. Names that had brought her to the edge of a breakdown and left her doubting her own sanity. 　　But here everything was at peace. The lake, the trees, the cottage. Here she could stay for the rest of her life. Here she would be happy to die. 　　Across the sun hurried a darkening filter of cloud. The ripples on the water, chased by a freshening wind, pushed their way anxiously from the far side of the lake until they almost bounced at her feet. And in the East there was thunder. 　　Quickly she gathered her things together and made for the cottage. But already the rain flecked the water behind her and pattered the leaves as she raced beneath the trees. Sodden and breathless, she ran for the cottage door, and, as she opened it, the storm burst. 　　And there on the hearth, haggard and unwelcome, stood a man. 　　“Hello!” 　　I was an odd way to greet a complete stranger who had invaded her home, but it was all she could think of to say. A casual greeting to someone who seemed to be expecting her, waiting for her. Maybe it was the way they did things down here? 　　“I suppose you had to shelter from the storm too?” she asked. 　　The man said nothing. 　　She ought to have been angry at this rude intrusion on her privacy, but anger somehow seemed pointless. It was as if the cottage was his, the hearth was his, and she had come out of the storm to seek refuge at his door. She watched him, cautiously; waiting for an explanation. He said nothing. Not a word 　　“Did you get wet?” she asked 　　He stood, huddled by the open fire, gazing at the dying embers. 　　She walked over, brushing against him as she bent to stir the logs into life, but still he did not move. The flames burst forth, lighting up the sadness in his dark eyes. 　　“And kneeled and made the cheerless grate blaze up and all the cottage warm...” 　　The words, spoken by him in a quiet, toneless voice, took her by surprise. 　　“Pardon?” she said 　　But he seemed not to hear. 　　She tried once more. “Ii look as if it’s set in for the evening. Would you like to sit down for a while?” 　　His eyes followed her as she moved to take off her coat and brush out her hair. 　　“...and from her form withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, and laid her soiled gloves by, untied her hat and let the damp hair fall...” 　　Poetry. He was quoting poetry 　　He looked vaguely like a poet; lean, distressed, with a certain bitterness in his eyes and hopelessness in his form. And his voice was deep and languid, like the middle of the lake where the water ran darkest. 　　Yet those ware not his lines. The words were not created by him. They were somehow familiar. Half remembered. Surely she had heard them before? As to names her profession brought her, she felt all the following EXCEPT _____.