And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. Even this man had accepted her for “Alcide” without a moment’s question. Spiders came out of their hiding places to commune in windows, industriously spinning their own designs over the stained glass. ‘I might have killed you,’ she snapped, ‘if only you did not say anything. He was full of fabulous stories, not just tales of his own past in Rome but wonderful fables from the mysterious Orient and the ancient Greeks, old jokes and yarns that only he remembered. I can't invent; the thing won't come. That'll tune me up. F.
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