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He learnt that his sister was privately married—the name or rank of her husband could not be ascertained—and living in retirement in an obscure dwelling in the Borough, where she had given birth to a son. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. It was 1582. There are certain smells, certain tinges to the air. “I am afraid,” she said, “that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms. “I am bored,” she said abruptly.
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