The carte de jour was before Monsieur. She could not feel her own body. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. From the centre of the ceiling hung a replica of the temple lamp in the Taj Mahal. Gently each time Ruth drew down the arms. ‘Not in the open street. The twenty pounds burned with avidity. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. ” She turned and fitted the latchkey into the door. ‘You’ll make shadows.
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