Lonely and afraid he looked, and strangely
like herself. The misery of him drew her irresistibly. Always before,
she had shunned the people of every day, having no understanding of
their pleasures or sorrows, seeing little meaning in their lives or
deaths. But here was a mortal who was different, who was magnetic, and,
almost without realising, she passed out of the house, crossed the road
and stood before him, the corners of her cloak draped across her arms.
He did not seem aware of her at once, and even when she spoke to him in
Italian of the Renaissance he did not hear. So she spoke again and this
time in English: "What is it?"
He started, rubbed his eyes, blinked at her and answered: "Hullo, who
are you?"
"What is it?" she repeated. "Have you lost something?"
"Don't--don't!" he pleaded. "Don't even suggest such a thing, little
lady."
"I won't. I only thought--and you looked so sad."
"Be all right directly. It's the waiting. Kind of you to stop and speak
to me." His eyes strayed over the gold and blue of her cloak. "Been to
a theatre?" he asked.
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