Gianfrancesco stumbled belatedly onto the beach, his feet padding wet sand. They had chosen to deliberately and wickedly insult a lady who had done her best to entertain them for many weeks. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. He was always in a state of semi-intoxication, but he was always gentle with me. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. Hers is quite the most exclusive set in London. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. I was—I was a corespondent.
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