He kissed Atalanta’s hand again, his lips lingering provocatively against her skin, and then with a wink at Paul he moved away and sat at a table at the far end of the room.
“He is fascinating!” Atalanta said enthusiastically. “In fact he is just as I might have expected from his book. It is really brilliant! Have you read it?”
“No,” Paul replied.
The monosyllable was sharp.
“He writes so vividly, so fluently,” Atalanta went on. “I don’t believe that any author could describe a scene better or make their characters seem more real – the routed Army – no longer troops but a loose mob, the Normandy countryside under the snow, the Rouennais bourgeois, the terror, the terrible irony and the sharp bitter comedy!”
Paul did not answer and after a moment Atalanta looked at him.
“What’s the ma
