She thought of Sebastian who often returned from the charnel house that the outside world had become. She was unusually pale, and her eyes were brilliant. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. “What on earth did you expect me to do, then?” he asked. Husbands and wives, young lovers, and mothers with strollers thronged in the streets, all savoring the fine cool weather. The light of memory flashed in the man’s face. I said I’d make shirts. It’s a sort of guarantee of confidence. His father and mother were a lawyer and a doctor, respectively. He laughed. It was dusty, with dirty clothing strewn about, a cracked basin thick with grime on the rickety dresser, and a film of grease on the leaded casement. The fever came. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall.
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