But it is that I have a very bad temper, you understand. When he returned, it was always the same. Over here men drink because they are lonely; and when they drink too hard and too long, they wind up on the beach. 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. She launched into a stuffy Partita 89 and played it too fast. There was no one else in the doorway. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. He accepted this confession conditionally: that no young man had kissed her. He did not explain what had happened to her. "You are complimentary, Sir Rowland," returned the other, with a grim smile. He went on.
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