He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. “When did you look up my mother’s records at the Joliet library, Michelle?” Lucy asked, trying not to incriminate herself by sounding confrontational. He was sickeningly aroused by their hands as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. Everything was done in a genteel and ordinary way, but on the other hand, there was no lingering.
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