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It was easy to discern Gianfrancesco’s mood. ” Lucy looked at the small shelf which was jammed with thick paperbacks by every major horror novelist of the twentieth century. She guessed that he probably slept all of three hours a night at most. She twisted to meet him and folded into his embrace. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel.

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