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‘The Master,’ she said, in English, and Brunetti watched her go all misty-eyed, the way she always did when she talked about Henry James. Did it make sense, he wondered, to be jealous? Jealous of a man who, it seemed to him from what Paola had said about him, not only couldn’t decide what his nationality was, but couldn’t seem to decide what sex he was, either?
‘He said it in response to someone who asked him, late in his life, what he had learned by all his experience.’ Brunetti knew what he was meant to do. He did it. ‘What did he say?’ ‘“Be kind and then be kind and then be kind,”’ she said in English. The temptation proved too strong for Brunetti. ‘With or without commas?’
He pushed these memories away. It was all beyond him now, taken into the hands of another agency of the law, and he could no longer affect the outcome in any way. He’d had enough of death and violence, enough of pilfered beauty and the lust for the perfect. He longed for springtime and its many imperfections.