‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. They had been playing tennis, with his manifest intention looming over her. Something about this woman rather reminds me of our hostess. Wood had been my father, as well as yours. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. “Yes, mostly. “Soon she will return. That is the age when Sebastianus took me for his bride.
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