"Judith Adams doesn't just write well-made plays, but pieces in which form and subject are perfectly matched" Lyn Gardner, The Guardian
But that didn't stop me. Wanting him. Loving him.
I would have given up all I have just for one night – one hour. Even knowing I was nothing to him but a passing fancy. I would have gone away after, without a word of complaint. I would have left the South Riding.
As it happens, he never so much as kissed me.
Why are you telling me this?
Because you loved him too. Because he didn't kill himself. He wasn't a tragic figure. Just a confused one – out of his time. Sometimes he seemed to me like a ghost.