These were seated in an imperfect semicircle about a very copper-adorned fireplace, surmounted by a carved wood inscription: “DO IT NOW. Without realizing what she has done, she's made a dreadful mess of it. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. Not a scar but has its history. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. Sebastianus began performing Marina’s last rites. Sampans with fish and fruit and vegetables swarmed about, while overhead gulls wheeled and swooped and circled. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind.
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