There was a counter of pastry and candy inside the door of Thorpe’s. A largebowl of sugar-coated almonds, green and white, glared at Keating. The placesmelled of orange icing. The lights were dim, a stuffy orange haze; the odormade the light seem sticky. The tables were too small, set close together.He sat, looking down at a paper lace doily on a black glass table top. But whenhe lifted his eyes to Catherine, he knew that no caution was necessary: she didnot react to his scrutiny; her expression remained the same, whether he studiedher face or that of the woman at the next table; she seemed to have noconsciousness of her own person.
