She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. ‘She’s perfectly right. ’ ‘I think you—’ He broke off abruptly, astonished at what he had been about to say. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. Pull over there. “You see,” he said, “you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter.
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