‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. There was a case, or something, some years ago. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. Ann Veronica decided she would have to go on with Capes another day, and, looking up, discovered him sitting on a stool with his hands in his pockets and his head a little on one side, regarding her with a thoughtful expression. Go for it. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. “Have to take your turn,” he remarked laconically. They’re in grad school and they both live in New York. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. One post-midnight meeting, she could stand it no longer. ‘So it was.
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