I made my way into the portrait gallery, walking to the far end where the portrait hangs. I looked at the three of them and then opened my book to the incriminating page. Fount, tree and shed are gone, I know not whither, But in one quiet room we three are still together. I looked at Islington and his companions—how comfortably linked, how assumptive that they would always exist together—and wished to cry.
