She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel. “What I am after is that beauty isn’t a special inserted sort of thing; that’s my idea. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”. I should have thought my note cleared up everything. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine.
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