Pause.
Through his teeth, Anselm said, ‘Of course.’
Pause.
Pause.
There was something about the fall of light upon her lips that suggested a smile: with joy sorrow, acquiescence, loss, gratitude and farewell: each transparent inflection inhabiting the other. Anselm moved to the French windows and stepped outside, all but overcome by a stifled impulse to shout. He faced a small lawn in a courtyard garden that trapped sunlight between high, brick-red walls. On the far side, like someone lost, stood Salomon Lachaise, distraught.