Jonathan stepped behind a curtain. The spinsters offered a good example of how singular each human being is, despite the fact that in sisters the basic corpuscle is the same. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. Abruptly the sterner look vanished and she twinkled. He is Jacques.
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