He did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully. ” His fingers touched hers for a moment under the ledge of the box. She was sore and overstrung, and it was intolerable to her that he should stand within three yards of her unsuspectingly, with an incalculably vast power over her happiness. It began in the eyes and spread to the lips: warm, embracing, even fatherly. It opened and a nun’s head popped out. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. On the bench was set a quartern measure of gin, a crust of bread, and a slice of cheese.
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