She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn. He can come round there. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. ‘She gave me four separate identities for herself, you must know, including Prudence, before I managed to get at her real name. It made her laugh, which in turn made him laugh. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. The houses they flitted to and from were glutted with hangers-on, servant/mistresses, and errant prostitutes. At Boulogne they took train to Basle; next morning they breakfasted together in the buffet of that station, and thence they caught the Interlaken express, and so went by way of Spies to Frutigen.
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