His patient was distinctly of a different order of life. The stores, the drying bins, McClintock's bungalows and the native huts sprawled around an exquisite landlocked lagoon. It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. “Perhaps by this time you will have heard of the step I have taken in leaving my home. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. I loved her beyond anything in heaven or on earth—to idolatry. But suppose I go?” “Now, Veronica! No, no. I did not know how he would act if I obstructed him.
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