The Palazzo was unlike anything she had ever known. It was enough. “Don’t they look like a pair of young lovers sleeping off a tryst?” He observed. Not one of them but bore the marks of having been engaged in a recent and severe conflict. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. ‘Do you need an excuse?’ ‘Oh, you know what doctors are.
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