“Did you get to the Prado this afternoon?” Helen asked him. The drink blotches, the red face, the sour whisky breath had gone. She got up and ran to Rupert. She was finding it increasingly difficult to buckle down to her book.
It pleased him to see them really enjoying their grass. Later her first wordwas “Daddy’, and, when she took her first steps, they were towards Rupert. Below them lay the valley, drenched white with dew, softened by the palest grey mist rising from the stream that ran along the bottom. “I can’t, really,” said Fen, thinking of the money she’d spent that morning.
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