He sat up in his chair as though the question had stung him. Lucy auditioned on a borrowed violin. What she had termed illuminative now appeared to be only another phase of the mystery which enveloped the child. ‘Do not look at me so,’ he snapped. She mewed weakly, “Sebastian? What have you done? Where is Gianfrancesco? Did you kill him?” He crossed his arms. They walked back to 118 hand in hand. People were not slaves to their gods as they are now, oppressed and unhappy, chained to their mortality and suffering so that they may one day enter an imaginary Heaven.
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