Part 7 Then one day a little thing happened that clothed itself in significance. He was helpful, but gravely dubious. I'm safe enough if you hold your tongue. Looked like them statues of the Holy Mother I see about the place. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. Then she reverted to the trousers. I had a hunch. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes.
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