“Your mother was a Gypsy. The slow stars circled on to the moment of their meeting. Above her head was an aura of white fire. The thing is done. Assessing him as harmless, she had remained friendly, albeit aloof. I can’t tell anyone certain things about my life. And yet she knew it was not fair to call her a foolish girl. Leonardo had told her it would happen, and warned her to make use of it. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Morality tells you what is right, and adventure moves you. ‘May I, indeed? I’ll take you up on that. Alban's to-night.
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