His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. He would teach her all he knew of life so that if the Hand should ever reach his shoulder, she would be able to defend herself. There all the loose characters thronged, assignations were openly made, and the spectators diverted themselves with the vagaries of its miserable inhabitants. ‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility. Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order.
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