She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. Then he took the pulse. . . "I told you I was not unprotected. ‘It’s my belief she is a nun. She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night. The houses they flitted to and from were glutted with hangers-on, servant/mistresses, and errant prostitutes. The lonely widows of robber barons found him irresistible and he was the guest of many a fine table.
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