HENRY:  I know it’s him. Billy, Billy, Billy, the name keeps dropping, each time without significance, but it can’t help itself. Hapless as a secret in a computer. Blip, blip. Billy, Billy. Talk to me. I’m sorry about the bedroom.
ANNIE:  You should have put everything back. Everything would be the way it was.
HENRY:  You can’t put things back. They won’t go back. Talk to me.
I’m your chap. I know about this. We start off like one of those caterpillars designed for a particular leaf. The exclusive voracity of love. And then not. How strange that the way of things is not suspended to meet our special case. But it never is. I don’t want anyone else but sometimes, surprisingly, there’s someone, not the prettiest or the most available, but you know that in another life it would be her. Or him, don’t you find? A small quickening. The room responds slightly to being entered. Like a raised blind. Nothing intended, and a long way from doing anything, but you catch the glint of being someone else’s possibility, and it’s a sort of politeness to show you haven’t missed it, so you push it a little, well within safety, but there’s that sense of a promise almost being made in the touching and the kissing without which no one can seem to say good morning in this poncy business and one more push would do it. Billy. Right?

From Tom Stoppard’s The Real Thing
Tom Stoppard

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