She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. ‘His wife? Pah!’ ‘You’re saying she is not his wife?’ ‘I am saying nothing. Tell him about the island, the coconut dance, the wooden tom-toms; read to him. I keep my finger on the pulse of things. He found Abraham on guard as he had left him. A lovely, fetching girl.
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