” Lucy would always press her face into her mother’s skirts when she heard the ending, no matter how many times she heard it. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. McClintock liked it. She told the porter to take it to the booking-office, and it was only after a disconcerting moment or so that she found she ought to have directed him to go to the cloak-room. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. It had been her father’s surname, and it had sounded far more innocuous and American than Iovelli.
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