To be exact, it was just sixteen hours and twenty minutes. She answered in whispers, for there was the white arm of a woman in the next box peeping beyond the partition within a yard of him. They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. ‘You usually do,’ he said lightly. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. He remembered that he had heard stories about the wonderful likeness between these two sisters, one of whom was an artist and a recluse, whilst the other had attached herself to a very gay and a very brilliant little coterie of pleasure-seekers. “Anna!” he exclaimed hoarsely. In fact, it would not surprise me to discover that they were both Leonardo’s. . . She pulled at his tee shirt again, wishing to feel his naked chest upon hers.
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