"Because—because I'm always distrustful of a priest," rejoined Jonathan. “No!” he said aloud at last. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo. ’ ‘He did, you know,’ grinned Gerald. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. But his treasured dream lay shattered at his feet.
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