Lucy did her best to avoid talking about it, but the subject was beguiling, as it almost always brought news about him from the grapevine within which Michelle was intravenously entwined. “Exactly. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. Clotilde pried Fritz from Lucy’s left leg where he was clinging. He became primitive, literal in his conception; the ramifications were, for the nonce, fairly relegated to limbo. The piece, in three movements, was short enough anyway. The troops had kept a large space clear around the gallows. I thought that you were he. ‘Why not a French flag?’ ‘Because I don’t believe that fool Pottiswick could tell French from Arabic, even if he heard it as he says he did—which I take leave to doubt.
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