Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. Her family are solid West End people, Kensington people. “What are you doing?” He cried. He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a blanched cheek, to Rowland. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. Because I’m younger than you. I understand nothing of what you say. Mike and Shari sat at the kitchen table eating potato chips.
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