For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. While he was thus standing, the flames of his house, which made the whole street as light as day, and ruddily illumined the faces of the mob below, betrayed him to them, and he was speedily driven from his position by a shower of stones and other missiles. ’ ‘Precisely,’ Gerald repeated. “Ciao. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. He was draining a glass, and as he set it down he shuddered.
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