” “Perhaps,” he said, “you had better let me have your key, and I will go up and explore. I tried to get across the terrace and onto the bridge to introduce myself, but the crowds did not part and I lost you. His idea was to get behind this sustained listlessness. Rhea’s head exploded into a spray of blood, brain, and bone. The gallows has groaned for him for years. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. I thank God for the very skin that is peeling from your nose, for all things great and small that make us what we are.
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