She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. “Always has been,” said Ogilvy. She guessed that he probably slept all of three hours a night at most. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock—ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. ‘That is why I have come to England, you understand. ” “What else,” Lady Lescelles murmured, “are men for?” Anna laughed. “Lucy, I have to talk to you.
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