She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. She was surprised and stared at him when he did not immediately leave the bed as Gianfrancesco always did, but instead rested on his elbows. The phone did not ring. She looked at the suitcase sadly and stashed it underneath her bed. “What a hypocrite you are. He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning. “The life of a private secretary is positively one of slavery.
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