She looked 57 forward to when Sebastian visited. She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent. While he was meditating flight in this way, and tossing about on the straw, he chanced upon an old broken and rusty fork. Socks and shoes were harder to find, and she ended up wearing men’s athletic tube socks and a pair of dust caked flip-flops that had sat forlornly in Locker 49 since 1978. Finally, at the exit into Regent’s Park, they ran against Miss Klegg. Celeste introduced him to me—oh, how Celeste hated me! She must have known.
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