Their eyes met, and his expressed perplexity and curiosity. “You are in trouble,” he said. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. She mewed weakly, “Sebastian? What have you done? Where is Gianfrancesco? Did you kill him?” He crossed his arms. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. His head turned sideways towards the noise, his brows scowling. And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms.
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