" "Thought so. “I first saw you crossing the river Arno, after a spring rain had spoiled the day for everyone except the ducks. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. “You’ve got to take the decent reasonable way. Went up to Somerset House to examine the will before he did it. When you don’t have any fingers left, I take a toe. He stalked her, he stared at her, he craved her, he sidled slinking and propitiatory and yet relentlessly toward her, until at last she awoke from the suffocating nightmare nearness of his approach, and lay awake in fear and horror listening to the unaccustomed sounds of the hotel.
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