‘This is not love, Marthe. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. ‘You don’t know him. . And he liked her. Leonardo was to me perhaps like a father, not a lover as you think. Michelle was on her like a fly, asking her questions about her past foster homes she did her best to avoid, pretending to be swamped every night with sudden reams of homework and unable to be reached by phone. Could it be him you mean?" "No. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. . "Where?" she cried.
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