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The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. Goopes when at home dressed simply in a pajama-shaped suit of canvas sacking tied with brown ribbons, while his wife wore a purple djibbah with a richly embroidered yoke. It had been Ann Veronica’s lot as the youngest child to live in a home that became less animated and various as she grew up. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window. It is for that reason that this novel begins with her there, and neither earlier nor later, for it is the history of this crisis and its consequences that this novel has to tell.
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