‘Exactly like my father. “Just like old times,” she thought sardonically. There was little more here than a sideboard, a chest for the vestments, and a simple wooden chair. The note-passer lagged behind with her. She was feeling extraordinarily well that night, so that the sense of her body was a deep delight, a realization of a gentle warmth and strength and elastic firmness. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. Thinking of Mantua, she wandered to the courtyard. Yet you knew that I was not dead.
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