Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. They don’t now. The sky periodically pummeled her with hail pellets as she would pass through the deserted intersections. “It’s a new phase in the life history,” he remarked. Two or three podgy-looking old men with wives to match, half-a-dozen overdressed girls, and a couple of underdressed American ones, who still wore the clothes in which they had been tramping half over London since breakfast time. They were silent for a time. It felt wonderful and golden to bask in the sunlight of their approval, even if their approval was fickle and dangerous. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo.
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