Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. That’s one thing clear. A bowl of roses, just brought by Ann Veronica, adorned the communal dressing-table, and Ann Veronica was particularly trim in preparation for a call she was to make with her aunt later in the afternoon. She mewed weakly, “Sebastian? What have you done? Where is Gianfrancesco? Did you kill him?” He crossed his arms. Too much, perhaps. Supposing he too wanted love and his arms were as empty as hers? Some living thing that depended upon her.
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