’ ‘Oh, that tragic pair,’ uttered her ladyship in saddened tones. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. ‘Doesn’t she, Gerald?’ Gerald held up his hands. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. “Can Lucy and I go out for a walk?” Michelle interrupted the violin conversation petulantly. “Indeed!” Anna answered indifferently. I don’t. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. .
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