Katy’s face was vapid and undistinguishable from a crowd, but pretty in an abstract sense, like the face of a baby doll. He may die. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. The morning swims in the lagoon had thickened the red corpuscle. A spacious suite of rooms down the hall John described as “my parents love den” with a grimace as Lucy smiled. But Gerald wouldn’t hear of it.
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