Between his lectures—and primarily he was an itinerant lecturer—he manoeuvred in vain to acquire some facts regarding the girl, who she was, whence she had come; but always she countered with: "What is that?" Guileless she might be; simple, never. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. The darkness prevented the carpenter from discerning the features or figure of the stranger; and the ceaseless din precluded the possibility of holding any communication by words with him. She receded into the entryway, opening her palm and gesturing as if there were an imaginary red carpet rolled out for visitors. “Looooo-ceeeeee!!” He yelled, sounding like Desi Arnaz. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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