Chapter 47

           Ihadaquick,abstemiouslunch,pouringtheretsinaintoapotwithatired-lookingpelargoniuminit;wentupstairs,putmythingsinthedufflebagandbroughtitdown.Thebeady-eyedModiglianistared;butIwenttothecuriosacabinetandexaminedLily’sphoto,heldittothelight,andnowIlookedatitverycloselyagainIthoughtIcouldseethatithadbeenfakedsomesubtlysmudgedoutlines,anoverdarkeningoftheshadows.Icametothestatue.OnceagainthewretchedNegrostoodinmypath.Thistimehewasontheothersideofthegulley,maskless,andwhenIcametotheedgeofit,onthehouseside,hewavedhishandforbiddinglybackwardsandforwardsacoupleoftimes.Hewassometwentyyardsaway,andforthefirsttimeIrealizedhehadasmallmoustache;andthathewasyoungerandlessbrutishthanIhadthoughtbefore.Istoodstaringsulkilyathim,thedufflebaghangingbymyside.Heputupbothhands,fingersoutstretched.IgavehimthecoldestlookIcould,thenshruggedandsatdownagainstatree,whereIcouldwatchhim.Hefoldedhisarmsagainoverhischestasifhereallywereascimitaredjanissaryatthegatesoftheimperialharem;slappedthesideofhisfacewhenaflylandedonit.Occasionallyhelookedatme,expressionlessly,butmostofthetimehewatcheddownthehill.Suddenlytherewasawhistle,ablownwhistle,fromthedirectionofthecliffs.TheNegrowaitedaminutemore,thenwalkedawayuppastthestatueandoutofsight.Icrossedthegulleyandwentfastdownthehilltotheplacewherewehadsat.

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