Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. Managers and accountants are always shifting about, so he tells me. ‘I see that Leonardo was right. “She was the High Priestess who turned me in Greece, before Rome. And this is not France, you understand. ‘Will you let be?’ Instead she grasped his hand tighter. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. An early bird clarinetist burst through in a long black skirt, swishing like a bell. It was warm, shielding, comforting, and what was more, full of understanding. She turned a resolute face southward.
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