Ú
Not wanting any trace of his old, cast-off life to remain in his presence, John gathered up the envelope and postcard and slipped out of the apartment. He crossed the Ponte Vecchio, making his way to Piazza della Repubblica, where, with a tremendous sense of liberation, he dropped the card in a postbox and the manila envelope in a soot-stained rubbish bin. As a sort of congratulatory confirmation, he went on to buy a large plate of white truffle sandwiches – small, oval-shaped treasures of pain brioché, which could only be had at Procacci in via de’ Tornabuoni – to serve this evening with the bottle of old Sauternes. On re-entering Palazzo Vespucci, he ran into the portress, who handed him the morning post, which, directly he was again seated at his writing-table, he began to sort throu
