. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room.
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