Remember ——” Annabel clutched her sister’s arm. Her head ached with a hollow pain. She got up and unlocked the door. She had thought it a mirror, because it was her. “So she must have had you fairly young, right?” Lucy nodded again. She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent. But what he could do or might do she could not imagine. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self.
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