She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. "Thank you," she said, and left the office. ” Annabel sank suddenly into a chair. He was all alone, like herself. She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. “Stop this—this humbugging,” he explained. “I first saw you crossing the river Arno, after a spring rain had spoiled the day for everyone except the ducks. They made a stratum into which Ann Veronica was now plunged up to her neck; it had become her stratum. She opened the door with a neon colored key. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories.
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