Anna opened a cupboard and produced cups and saucers and a tin of coffee. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. He unhooked it from the front clasp. You’re dealing with me now, not Gerald. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. 32 The curtains and tapestries had appeared over the windows before Marina had died, growing moldy from the dampness and the oils of lavender, clove, and clary sage soaking them. He had forgiven everybody. His pale and boyish waist was nearly as slim as her own. ’ Trodger eyed her with suspicion.
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