” Annabel rose to her feet. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. ” She replied dryly. She decided that she would try to push whatever resolve he had in the car to see where it would lead. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. She was trying to bring her problems to a head, and her mind insisted upon being even more discursive and atmospheric than usual. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it.
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