Of course I know nothing of what really did happen in Paris—if even you ever saw him there. Watching her strip had been delicious for him, and a part of him enjoyed her self-consciousness acutely. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. Well, they’d got to the pheasants, and in a little while he would smoke. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. “You were born for great things,” he said huskily. No matter. And talking of every conceivable thing. Sebastianus gave Marina tonics and barred Lucia from touching her mother, who yelled in her Gypsy tongue at Lucia to stay away, save the baby.
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