"It's very nice," she said somewhat faintly.   He'd said he didn't want to live in a hovel.  He hadn't been kidding.   She'd have to move her books in.  She'd have to move her clothes in.  Even this brief interaction with him left her with more energy than she'd had in weeks, though she still felt the dull pull of weakness engendered by long illness.  She wanted him to take her arm again.  She wanted to feel his hand on her skin, not just her clothing.  She wanted to lock herself away and cry that she'd been reduced to this. 