He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. “Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger. If they entered a shop, he paused by the doorway, as if waiting for the journey to be resumed. “I do,” Anna answered. She would take the items with her; bury the items and her bloodstained clothes in one of the many sinkholes in the huge landfill/garbage dump on the south side of town.
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