The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. “It is an annoyance, my friend,” she said, “not a tragedy. ‘Madame, I trust I see you well?’ ‘Merci. I was a novelty. She kept her face downcast. He cupped her small hands in the bowl of his large ones and reassured her in the kindest manner, saying, “You will have the finest life that Florence has to offer. "But, perhaps, he has not got beyond the room above.
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