He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. They entered a hansom and turned on to the Embankment. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. Her eye wandered quickly over that riotous and disorderly assemblage, until it settled upon one group more riotous and disorderly than the rest, of which her son formed the principal figure. Perhaps once it had desired some other human being intolerably. “But I am your husband,” he said. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. His movements became quicker, and she made grinding motions with her hips that began to please her as well. In this letter, which is addressed to my ill-fated mother, he speaks of his friendship for Sir Rowland, whom it seems he had known abroad; but entreats her to keep the marriage secret for a time, for reasons which are not fully developed. That would come later. 272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness.
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