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There was the telephone. For twenty-five years she had thought about this moment, rejected the project as unbearable and impossible. How could she have decided so suddenly? She was trembling, and her stomach felt empty, nagging as it did when she was scared.
The photographer was adjusting his equipment. "I think your photographs are going to come out nicely, minha senhora. It's been a good session, I think."
She gave him the winning smile, which now crinkled her middle-aged face. "Thank you. I've enjoyed it. So you'll send the photographs on to England?"
"Certainly. If you're going back there."
There was a pause. Should it be now? Ever? She said, "Can I use your phone?"
"Com certeza, minha senhora. Se faz favor."
The phone was outside his studio in a dark corridor which led to the receptionist's desk; neither of them would overhear her. She picked up her gloves and her bag. Could she change her mind now? But the photographer would think her eccentric. The Portuguese dislike of any unconventionality was one of the things about her countrymen which made her glad to be flying home to England tomorrow.